Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (28 page)

Once we’re outside the city, the Dhargots can ride us down like grass. Atheion’s too far away.
She tapped her sword hilt again.
At least if we get to Karhaati, we can do some good before we die.

She considered the matter then made up her mind. She thanked the clerics again and winked at Thessa. The girl stepped forward.

“You cut your hair.” She sounded disappointed.

“Easier to hide,” Igrid said, then strode off toward what she was sure would be her death.

When Jalist regained his senses, he found himself lying in the snow, staring up at a twilit sky. He took a breath. His chest hurt, but he managed to sit up. Turning, he spotted his horse in the distance, milling with other riderless horses. He turned his head the other direction and saw charred corpses in the distance. A slash of azure caught his eye. Then he heard trumpets. This time, they sounded from behind him, back in the city.

Jalist forced himself to move. He crawled to his long axe then used it like a crutch to push himself back onto his feet. His ankle hurt, but he did not think it was broken. He spotted the Queshi bow in the snow where he’d been lying a moment before. In breaking his fall, the bow had snapped in half. He turned back toward the glimpse of azure and stumbled toward it.

He found Rowen Locke lying on his back, arms splayed, pale and wide eyed. Charred, unrecognizable corpses surrounded him. Fire had scorched Rowen’s kingsteel armor and burnt away most of his azure tunic. The expression on his face made Jalist’s skin crawl. Jalist thought he must be dead, too, but then the Isle Knight blinked. He stared up at the sky then at Jalist, uncomprehending.

Jalist grinned. But before he could speak, a sound drew his attention back toward Hesod. He looked up to see two Dhargots riding toward him. More followed on foot. Then a curious thing happened. One of the Dhargothi horsemen twisted in the saddle, raised a crossbow, and fired wildly at the footmen. The second horsemen spotted Jalist and waved, shouting.

Jalist laughed. Then he gave Rowen a gentle kick. “Get up, you fool. We’ll swap mad stories later.” He turned toward his horse and whistled. The beast, still fearful, hesitated then sauntered over. Jalist caught the reins. “Get up!” he shouted when he saw that Rowen had not moved. Slowly, the Knight sat up. A curved sword lay beside him, half buried in the snow. Rowen stared at it, then seized it.

By the time Vardan and Braggo joined them, Rowen had managed to rise to his knees. Jalist dropped his long axe and used both hands to haul Rowen onto his feet. Braggo dismounted and helped Jalist lift Rowen onto Jalist’s horse. Rowen slumped forward, shaking, hugging his sword against his chest.

Vardan frowned, struggling to reload his crossbow. “Where’s the wytch?”

“Not here.” Jalist turned, debating which riderless horse he might catch first.

Braggo cursed and pointed.

The Dhargothi footmen had closed ranks and were marching steadily toward them, shields locked. Jalist guessed that Vardan had already killed their leader, hoping to slow them down, but a second force of Dhargots—all on horseback—had just crested the hill. Braggo held out his hand, offering to pull Jalist onto his own horse.

Jalist shook his head. “You won’t get away with me weighing you down.”

“And you won’t get away on foot.”

Jalist turned to Rowen. The Knight looked dazed and fearful. Jalist thought of the purple flames and glanced down at the charred remains of the Olgrym. “Just get Locke out of here. He’s the one that matters.”

“Like hell. We came for the wytch.” Vardan lifted his crossbow, aimed, and fired. He started reloading immediately, without waiting to see if he’d struck his target.

Jalist glanced at Rowen’s sword. “I think she’s gone.”

Braggo said, “But we saw wytchfire—”

“That was Locke. Don’t ask me to explain. Just get him out of here.” Jalist stooped, wincing from the pain in his ankle, and retrieved his long axe. “I’ll hold them back as long as I can.”

Braggo and Vardan exchanged looks. Vardan turned back to the Dhargots, lifted his crossbow, and fired. Braggo said, “They’ll just ride around you.” He dismounted, threw Jalist his reins, and ran toward the nearest riderless horse.

Jalist swore at him then pulled himself up into the saddle. He faced Vardan. “We’ll split up. You and Braggo—”

“Too late. They’re too close.” Vardan fired again then dropped his crossbow. He drew his longsword. “Get going, Captain. We’ll take care of this.”

Before Jalist could answer, Vardan spurred his horse toward the Dhargots, shouting at the top of his lungs. Braggo flew past a moment later on a new horse. He drew his sword, turned in the saddle, and saluted Jalist. Then he added his wild shout to Vardan’s. Both men of the Red Watch drove through the snow, steel glinting, straight for the advancing mass of Dhargots.

Jalist stared, watching the first furious clash of steel, then shook himself out of his stupor. Catching the reins to Rowen’s horse, he tugged it around. He slapped the horse’s flanks with the flat of his axe. The horse leapt into motion. Jalist followed, wind raking his damp eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Bloody Prince and the Iron Sister

K
arhaati wished he were back in Cassica. That city had been wretched, too, but its people had already been broken once before when the Throng attacked and the Nightmare tore down their walls. That made them more malleable. In Hesod, Karhaati could practically smell rebellion. Normally, he would have relished the challenge of breaking these people, but he had already tasted plenty of that at Cassica and Quorim. He wanted spoils of another kind.

The Bloody Prince refilled his cup. Before drinking, he stopped to appreciate the cup’s raised carvings of bare-breasted women swinging swords at dragons. Despite his foul mood, he laughed. He drank then lowered the cup and glanced at the maps and quartermaster reports scattered across his desk.

“What’s so damn important about one Knight?”

He glared at the circle on the map that signified Hesod. There was no one around worth fighting. The Dragonkin had enlisted Karhaati’s Lochurite berserkers, whom he was glad to be rid of, but had insisted that his Jolym needed no additional help in conquering Atheion. Karhaati’s mission was simply to waste time and energy sending his legions to catch a single man.

Karhaati shook his head at the absurdity and shoved the maps aside. Weren’t there plenty of Isle Knights left on the Lotus Isles, all ripe for killing? The Dragonkin had said something about a dangerous magic sword, but it all sounded like childish fairytales. Karhaati had other, more pressing matters: the continued defiance of his brother, Saanji, and his Earless; planning invasions of Lyos and Ivairia; and of course, the eventual necessity of killing his father and assuming rule over the Dhargothi Empire.

But as proud as he was, Karhaati was not about to defy his new ally. Not yet, anyway.

He shuddered, remembering how effortlessly the Dragonkin’s Jolym had torn Karhaati’s cavalry to shreds, sparing him alone. Karhaati’s horse had been cut out from under him, his sword shattered. The Jolym quietly encircled him, their blades and armor splattered with blood, their backs unfazed by the arrows raining down on them from Cassica’s battlements. Then Chorlga appeared, standing over him, grinning like a wolf that had just eaten its fill. Karhaati thought he was about to die, but instead, Chorlga had offered him an alliance.

He killed three hundred of my best riders and shamed me in front of my own host… all just to prove a point.

The disgrace in front of his men irked him the most, especially given all he had done recently to cull disobedience and cowardice from the ranks, but he could do little in reprisal. According to the stories, even Dragonkin were not immortal, but assassination was a tricky prospect. Chorlga was surrounded at all times by Jolym. Even had they been absent, Shel’ai could read minds and cast unnatural fire from their bare hands. Surely, that went double for Dragonkin. Karhaati had taken care to avoid any thoughts of violence toward Chorlga until the Dragonkin announced that he was going to Atheion, leaving the Isle Knight’s capture in Karhaati’s hands.

Karhaati considered the Isle Knight’s sword. Whatever it was, Chorlga seemed afraid of it. That meant Karhaati might benefit from defying the Dragonkin’s orders and forming an alliance with the Isle Knight instead. Word had it that the Dragonkin’s Jolym had already destroyed most of the Lotus Isles and crippled the Knighthood. The Isle Knight might jump at the chance for a strong ally like Karhaati.

But what could the Knight offer me?

Karhaati did not understand the magic of the Knight’s sword, nor did he care to. If the Knight wanted to live, he would have to do more. He would have to eliminate the Dragonkin… and fast, before Karhaati’s men began to worship Chorlga. Once Chorlga was gone, killing a lone, trusting Isle Knight would be a simple matter.

“Foolish thoughts,” he muttered. Until he had the Knight in chains, this reflection was pointless. He was better off focusing on sending more agents to Brahasti’s compound so that the brilliant but disobedient general could either be dragged back into Karhaati’s service or made to wish he had. But even that prospect seemed tedious.

There are always the Iron Sisters…

Karhaati’s pulse quickened. He had not seen them yet, but several of Ziraari’s generals had told him Ziraari’s plan: to keep the Iron Sisters for his own amusement until the proper time, then send them to Karhaati as a gift. Only when Karhaati opened the slave wagons, he would find that the Iron Sisters had been armed. Even if they didn’t kill him, so many of his men being killed by women would be a disgrace even more damning than what Chorlga had done to him.

But Ziraari was dead. The Iron Sisters were Karhaati’s. He thought about sending the women back to his father. After all, Ziraari’s plan had been a good one. But that could wait. He thought of all those strong, supple women chained in the dark. Rising from his chair, he drank his wine slowly, savoring it, running his thumb over the carved surface of the cup. Then he set the cup down, loosened his belt, and decided it was time to pay the Iron Sisters a visit.

Igrid wondered if her luck had finally changed for the better. She’d ascended without incident from the sewers into the Hesodi palace, followed the clerics’ directions to the dungeons, and found two Dhargots asleep at their post. Torches burned low in brackets fixed to the wall next to them. They sat at a table just outside the cells, near a narrow stairwell that presumably led higher into the palace. Igrid crept out, stood in front of the guards, then peered around the corner. Another Dhargot stood with his back turned. He stood just outside a cell filled with women, sword drawn, whispering vulgar things through the iron bars. The women ignored him.

Igrid returned her attention to the first two guards. She eased her shortsword from its scabbard, drawing it between her fingers to muffle the scrape of steel on leather. Then she drew the dagger that Vardan had given her. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Then she leaned forward and stabbed both sleeping men in their throats.

They jerked awake, wide eyed, blood bubbling from their lips. One of the men stood, reached futilely for Igrid, and crashed to the floor. Igrid had already yanked her blades free. She turned. The third guard stepped around the corner. Though he still had his sword drawn, he frowned, as though he only meant to chide his comrades for making too much noise.

Igrid leapt forward, biting back the urge to fuel her limbs with a feverish battle cry. Her shortsword swung high, arcing for the Dhargot’s face. He saw it coming and raised his own sword to block. But Igrid’s sword pulled up short, just before their blades would have met in a loud clang. She kicked the Dhargot’s knee. That stunned him long enough for her to bob, weave, and bury Vardan’s dagger in his right eye.

Releasing the dagger, she pressed her hand over the Dhargot’s mouth to muffle his death cries. He dropped his sword. She cursed as it clattered off the stone. She dragged him away from the doorway and dumped his corpse behind the table with the others. Snatching up the Dhargot’s fallen blade, she braced herself, a sword in each hand. She heard drunken laughter and whimpering in the distance, but no running footsteps.

Satisfied, she searched the three men’s corpses. She found daggers, a crude wooden carving of the Dragongod, and a pouch of coins, but no keys. She cursed again. Making sure the corpses were out of sight behind the table, she leaned against the wall, crouched low, and looked around the corner.

Before her lay a great, dim chamber lined on one side with iron cells. The stench of filth and misery, almost as bad as the odor in the sewers, filled her nostrils. All the cells roiled with strong-limbed women—some nude, others dressed in rags. At least one lay on the ground, wrapped in bloody gauze, unmoving.

A few women looked at her. Igrid pressed one blade to her lips, like a finger, calling for silence. The women nodded. With seasoned quickness, they turned away from her, sitting down or staring at the wall. Still, Igrid heard some of them whispering and knew it was only a matter of time before the guards sensed something was amiss.

Igrid ducked out of sight and listened again, just in case a Dhargot had spotted her. She took another deep breath. Then she leaned out a second time, taking stock of the situation. Her stomach lurched.

Opposite the overcrowded cells lay disorderly rows of animal cages, obviously dragged down there after the cells had been filled. Each cage contained one or two women. Some knelt, as though in meditation. Others wept and rocked themselves. Dhargots paced the rows, some with sticks or drawn swords, which they used to poke at the cages. But most of the Dhargots seemed to have tired of the sport and had gathered at the far end of the chamber. They filled three long tables, drinking and gambling, while others slept on adjacent straw pallets.

Igrid counted, cursed, then turned back to the cells. She grimaced at the cells’ iron locks. While the cages looked to be of Dhargothi make, with doors secured only by small crude locks that could easily be broken off, the cells were another matter. They were Hesodi design, with heavy, complex locks that would have made a thief’s heart sink. At best, she would only be able to pick one before she was spotted.

But one might be all I need.

Igrid went back to the slain Dhargots and took off one of their cloaks. She replaced her robe with the Dhargot’s then picked up a helmet and slipped it on. It reeked of sweat. She hoped the dead man wouldn’t give her lice. Sheathing her own sword, she slid a Dhargot’s blade into her empty scabbard, armed herself with as many daggers as she could fit into her belt, and went to work.

She forced herself to walk boldly into the room. She stopped before the closest cell. Keeping her back to the guards on the other end of the chamber, she drew her thinnest knife and inserted the tip into the lock. Women pressed toward her. Some whispered questions. A tall, dark-skinned woman pushed in front of the others, hissing for them to be quiet. They fell back. The dark-skinned woman gripped the cell bars. A faint smile touched her lips.

“Igrid.”

Igrid blinked. “Ailynn?” Igrid hardly recognized her former captain. Ailynn’s hair hung in a long dark braid against her breasts. Her dark Soroccan body bristled with scars, some of them recent, including one that stretched from her bottom lip to her chin, interrupting her smile. Igrid blushed. “I thought…”

“I died with Queen Sharra?” Ailynn shook her head. “Some killed themselves to avoid capture. Others kept fighting. I chose the latter.” She glanced over Igrid’s shoulder. “Stop gawking and work that damn knife! They haven’t seen you yet, but they will.”

Igrid returned her attention to the lock, gently wiggling the tip of her dagger, trying to feel the mechanism through the blade. A moment later, she cursed. “I can’t…” She glanced to the side and saw the occupants of the other cells watching, too.

“Breathe, child,” Ailynn told her. “I know where you came from. You’re better at this than I am.”

Igrid met Ailynn’s gaze, nodded, and returned her attention to the lock. A man shouted in the distance. The shout was followed by laughter. The Dhargots were calling out to her, thinking she was one of their comrades opening the cell for a bit of fun. Some teased while others reminded her not to open the cell without help.

Igrid felt a lump in her throat. She was running out of time. Her hands were sweating, making it harder to hold the dagger. The Dhargots called to her from across the chamber again. The teasing turned to angry shouts when she did not answer. She heard men pushing back their chairs and rising to their feet.

Then the lock clicked open.

Instead of opening the door, Igrid reached through the bars and gave Ailynn her dagger. “I’ll slow them down. Get to work on the next cell.” Ailynn plucked two more daggers from Igrid’s belt, passed them to the women beside her, and nodded.

Igrid stepped back. The cell door opened. Women rushed out. The Dhargots shouted in rage and surprise then drew their swords. Igrid glanced at the doorway. She realized there was still time. She’d given the Iron Sisters a fighting chance. If she wanted, she could run back down to the sewers. She could save herself.

Igrid stared at the Dhargots scurrying up from the tables, arming themselves. To her surprise, she laughed. Then she tossed away the helmet. Despite the lump in her throat, she flashed the men a crooked smile.