Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (38 page)

Royce said, “Good thing our men are calling all this the New Alliance.”

“Why’s that?”

“New things have an excuse when they go badly.” Royce stooped to retrieve Zeia’s shortswords. Both had blackened from her touch, though not as much as the first time they sparred. “Do you think her hands disappearing was a trick? Or had she just got too weak to keep up the spell?”

Saanji had not thought of that. He glanced after Zeia, who had left the practice yard for her private quarters. Reluctant bodyguards—two Lancers and two Earless—fell in behind her. Saanji turned toward the group of Cassicans he’d noticed earlier. They were gone. “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like she likes appearing vulnerable. Makes sense why.”

Royce nodded. “Holding objects is one thing. Throwing them is another. She won’t be much use to us if she can’t throw wytchfire.”

Saanji scratched his growing goatee. “I don’t know. A crazed woman with hands made out of fire, swinging a sword? That would scare the piss out of me!”

“But will it scare the piss out of your brother?”

“No,” Saanji admitted after a moment. “He’ll probably think she’s beautiful.”
Like I do.

“And the Jolym?”

“I don’t think
anything
frightens them. So we’ll just have to fill their eye sockets full of arrows and hope that does the trick.”

“And hope Chorlga isn’t with them,” Royce added.

“Well, we could always stay here.”

Royce frowned. “I’m not losing my nerve, Dhargot. The Shel’ai is right. If Knightswrath really is that powerful, we need to find Rowen Locke and make him our ally before your brother kills him and Chorlga takes the sword. Besides, the gods know we’ll need
his
help against Chorlga and the Nightmare.”

Saanji nodded. “I know. I wasn’t questioning your guts, just our collective sanity.”

Royce scoffed. “Ah. Well, that’s another matter. Look on the bright side, though. All the scouts say the Jolym appear to have gotten tired of killing everywhere else. Looks like they’re all massing in the south.”

“Perfect. Maybe they’ll all form one big, unkillable army that can tear us to pieces.”

“At least they’ll sing songs about us.” Royce clapped his shoulder. “We march for Nosh at first light. I need you sober for that.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Saanji waited until Royce left, Lancers falling in behind him, then turned and headed for the nearest tavern. Glancing at the direction Zeia had taken, he had half a mind to invite her to join him, but he did not have the nerve to ask.

As he walked, he considered Royce’s question about Karhaati. He imagined how his brother would react to the sight of Zeia. Like so many Dhargots, his brother worshipped power. Zeia would impress him, surely, but his would be the kind of admiration that hinged on servitude and conquest. Since Zeia was not powerful enough that Karhaati would be forced to serve her, the only remaining option would be to honor her power by killing her.

Gods, how did we both come from the same womb?

The thought made him wince. For all he knew, they had not. Men who adhered strictly to the Way of Ears placed almost no value on women. Saanji did not even know his mother’s name; he had no memories of being held or suckled by any woman save his frightened wet nurses. He wondered who his mother might have been—a slave with the misfortune of being born beautiful, a captive from a conquered people, or perhaps even some unwanted daughter of royal blood? He touched the opal ring on his finger. The thought of Maryssa made tears well up in his eyes. He blinked them back, glad his bodyguards could not see.

Turning the corner, he spotted his favorite tavern in the distance. Cassicans, mostly children and the elderly, milled in the streets, moving between shops and temples. They spotted him and drew aside. A few nodded. Saanji made a point of nodding back. Though he’d earned a reputation for kindness during the city’s occupation, Saanji had not forgotten that he was still a Dhargot. Some of his Earless had already been attacked by Cassicans who saw no distinction between them and the other Dhargots. For that reason, Saanji had ordered that no Earless travel through the city alone. If possible, he preferred that they travel in the company of Lancers.

But Lancers made poor drinking companions, and despite his promise to Arnil Royce, Saanji intended to get good and drunk. After all, it would be a cold, grueling march through ice and snow to reach Nosh, and there was a very good chance that his own shallow grave was all that awaited him there. Better he approach that fate with a sore belly and a headache caused by hláshba.

Saanji smiled, remembering the tavern’s unexpected stock of that powerful Soroccan liquor, which even the most committed drunks tended to avoid. He’d already spent more coins and hours in that tavern than he could recall. He felt honor-bound to pay one last visit. Besides, the tavern’s owner was an old man who’d had his tongue cut out by Dhargots, but he still seemed friendly enough toward Saanji. The old man played a strange stringed instrument in a way that would have made the gods weep, and Saanji wanted to hear him play again before one or both of them died. He was still contemplating this, playing a favorite melody in his head, when the attack began.

His only warning was the wide eyes of an old woman who happened to be looking in his direction, but it was enough to send his hand for the hilt of his shortsword. He drew it and turned. One of his bodyguards had already fallen toward the street, a spear in his back. The others howled in warning and drew steel, backpedaling to form a circle around Saanji.

“Gods-damned Dhargots!” someone yelled.

All around them, Cassicans screamed. Doors slammed. The attackers—the men he’d seen earlier—charged out of an alley. Two more had spears. The rest had crossbows. Saanji wondered where they’d gotten them. He held up his empty hand. Despite the sudden lump in his throat, he found his voice.

“Wait, listen, we’re not like the others. I’m not my brother. You don’t have to—”

One of the men interrupted with a crazed, unintelligible shout. Then the men with crossbows lifted them, taking aim. One of the Earless shoved Saanji backward. His heel caught on something, and he fell. More screams swirled around him. He heard the clatter of steel and saw a shower of sparks.

He looked around for his sword. He spotted its brass hilt glinting in the distance—too far to reach. He crawled toward it but had gotten only halfway when a man with a spear blocked his path.

“For my wife,” the man grunted. He thrust the head of his spear at Saanji’s face. Saanji watched it coming closer and closer, knew he was about to die, then remembered he could still move. He rolled to one side. A stab of pain—cold, then hot—told him he hadn’t gotten away clean. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet then surprised himself by charging his attacker.

He surprised his attacker, too. The man tried to turn his spear in time to impale Saanji through the stomach, but he was too slow. Saanji caught the spear, wrapped one arm around it, and pinned it to his side. They struggled, so close that Saanji could smell hláshba on his opponent’s breath. He noted the man’s bloodshot eyes. Saanji tried to wrest the spear away from his attacker, realized he wasn’t strong enough, and kicked blindly.

His attacker grunted. Saanji kicked again. The man’s grip loosened. Saanji kicked him a third time then tore the spear free. Rather than waste time trying to bring the point to bear, he drove the shaft into his attacker’s nose. The man cursed and fell backward. Saanji hesitated, then aimed his spear and thrust downward.

He looked up as he dragged the blade free. In the distance, three of his Earless lay on the street, all bloody. One moved weakly, clutching his stomach, his eyes glazed. The other Earless had formed a line and charged, one despite the crossbow bolt in his shoulder. They’d already cut down three attackers, including the ringleader. The remaining four backpedaled, blindly waving spears or daggers in place of crossbows.

Then Saanji saw a second knot of men, dressed in rags and armed with daggers and cudgels, racing up from the other end of the street. For a moment, he thought they were coming to help. His heart soared. Then one of them pointed right at him and spat on the street.

“Watch your backs,” Saanji called to his men. They glanced over their shoulders. One of them cursed. Another tried to haul the wounded man onto his feet, but his glazed eyes widened with pain, and he screamed until his comrade laid him back down again.

Saanji watched, trying to remember the men’s names. Shame filled him when he could not. Then the sound of approaching footsteps reminded him of the danger. He turned to face the second knot of men. He counted.

“Seven on one side, four on the other,” he called to his men. “Can’t hold them here. Fall back.”

“Where?” one of his men grunted, looking around. The tavern was too far. All the nearby houses had closed and barred their doors. Most had closed their shutters, too. Then Saanji spotted an open window.

He pointed with his sword. “There. If you want to live, run like your asses are on fire.” He ran. His men followed. The second group of attackers angled their charge, trying to block Saanji’s path.

We’re not all going to make it…

“Climb through the window,” Saanji shouted. He turned, intending to charge the men, but one of his Earless—he could not tell who—shoved him back toward the window.

“Get to safety, my prince. We’ll hold them off.”

Saanji glanced at the charging men. His courage faltered. He nodded dumbly and ran the rest of the way to the window. He clambered through. The house stank of sweat and filth. He saw no furniture or source of light. The house’s owner, an old man with one arm in a sling, cowered in the corner.

Saanji spotted the door, unlatched it, and threw it open. Waning daylight made him wince. “Inside,” he called to his men.

No one answered, though he doubted anyone could hear him over the din of fighting. Then someone screamed in pain. Saanji hoped it was one of their attackers, though the glare of the setting sun blinded him. He stood in the doorway, shaking, then stepped back out into the street.

“Enough,” he shouted toward the blur of noise and fighting men. “Leave my men alone. We’ve done nothing to you. We aren’t like the others. Don’t you understand?”

A cudgel sailed through the air, emerging from the setting sun as though born of it. A man held the cudgel. Saanji took a step backward—too slowly. The cudgel met his shoulder. Bones cracked and shifted. Saanji withered. Then he realized he was still holding his sword in his broken arm. He switched his sword to his good hand and lifted it, but the cudgel knocked it out of his grasp.

Someone shouted, “Do it, Lem. Do it fast!”

Saanji looked up. “Lem, is it?”

Lem blinked. He’d raised his cudgel but paused when Saanji spoke his name. Saanji took advantage of the opportunity by driving his foot into Lem’s groin. Lem staggered backward, cursing. Saanji tried to push himself up. But another man kicked his legs out from under him. Saanji saw a rust-covered cleaver arcing toward his face. Then a sword blurred downward, knocking it aside. A second sword followed the first, cutting the cleaver out of the attacker’s hand. Violet fire blurred past him.

Zeia finished off the man with the cleaver then turned to face the man with the cudgel. She was not alone. Four figures surged out of the shadows behind her. Two wore the dark scale armor of Dhargots, while the other two wore plate armor that gleamed in the setting sun.

Saanji let himself sag against the wall of the house and sink onto the street. Lancers and Earless streamed past him. The cries of battle became screams for mercy. A moment later, Royce knelt before him, grim faced. Blood splattered his armor and ran slowly down his kingsteel bastard sword. He spoke Saanji’s name.

Saanji nodded. “I’m still alive.”

“I can see that.” Royce wiped his sword clean on his sleeve then sheathed it. “Can you stand? We have to get you inside.”

“Why? Isn’t the battle over?”

“Not quite.” Royce grabbed his good arm and gently helped him up. “They weren’t just after you. This is citywide. A hundred rebels, at least.”

Saanji shook his head. “Zeia… but Zeia healed them…”

“Maybe that’s why it’s only a hundred and not five thousand.” Royce snapped his fingers, and two Lancers came to his assistance. “Get the prince back to the barracks. Keep him safe. Give him hláshba for the pain and bandage his ear.”

My… ear?

Saanji remembered the spear thrust earlier in the battle. With his good, left hand, he touched his right ear. The pain made him wince. He looked at his fingers and saw blood. He laughed.

“Earless…”

The Lancers helped him along. Saanji went with them then stopped, twisting back so abruptly that his shoulder shifted and the pain made him scream. “Royce,” he muttered when he could, “my men… my bodyguards… are any alive?” When no one answered, he added, “Find out their names…”

He took a step and lost his balance. The Lancers tried to catch him, forced to grab his right arm. Broken bones shifted. Saanji whimpered, then his world went dark.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Mustering

A
eko stood on the shores of Armahg’s Tears and watched as the last of Atheion sailed out of sight, fading into a horizon dominated by high, snowy mountains. Though the houses and temples that rode on some of the skiffs had been reduced to charred ruins, the skiffs themselves were intact. They looked more like ships now, powered by weeping Noshan oarsmen. At the heart of the seafaring caravan floated what remained of the Scrollhouse, beneath an azure banner.

Aeko took a deep breath. Despite the cold, the smell of smoke and charred flesh filled her nostrils. They had finally finished burying the dead—not just their own but the Noshans and the Lochurites as well—but the smell remained. Aeko wondered if that smell would cling to the armor and tabards of Crovis’s followers, all the way back to the Lotus Isles, as she was sure it would cling to hers. She wondered, too, if anyone would stop congratulating Crovis long enough to notice.

She doubted it. Thanks to Crovis, what remained of Atheion’s treasure and people were about to become part of the Isles. “The Noshans think Crovis is giving them protection,” she muttered.

“In a way, he is,” Sang Wei answered from her right. “I heard there are still a couple tribes of Lochurites out there. If they come back, with Atheion like it is—”

“People who give up their freedom to men like Crovis never get it back. Ask the people of Lyos.”

“I will the next time I’m there,” Sang Wei answered. “I’ll be able to ask them, because
you
kept them safe.”

Aeko blinked. “I wasn’t aware the Codex Lotius showed the bright side of conquest.”

“It doesn’t, not really. But the Codex Viticus does.” Sang Wei cleared his throat. “But I don’t think that matters now.”

“No,” Aeko agreed. She turned in the saddle to study what remained of her company: twenty-three sour-faced Knights. All that she could convince to stay behind and continue the search for Rowen Locke rather than follow Crovis Ammerhel back to the Isles. By the looks on her Knights’ faces, none were especially confident in the wisdom of their decision.

Aeko turned to study the newly promoted Knight of the Stag beside her. Sang Wei looked only a little more certain than the others. She’d even thought for a moment that he meant to remain at Crovis’s side and sail with the remains of Atheion on Zet’s Blood, out to sea. The young Knight seemed to grasp what he was risking by staying behind.

Although Crovis had granted all of them permission to continue their search for Rowen Locke, the coldness in his eyes had made his intentions clear: once he got back to the Isles and assumed command of the remaining Knights there, he would drive out any remaining Jolym and install himself as Grand Marshal. But Aeko doubted he would stop there. The Knights would demand justice. Crovis would have to take his army onto the mainland in the guise of marching against Chorlga.

But he’ll stop at Lyos first. He’ll sack one Free City after another to finance his campaign… and he’ll do it all in the name of honor.

“And no one will say a word against him.”

Sang Wei looked at her. “Knight-Captain?”

“Nothing,” Aeko said. She turned to look at the stern-faced Dwarr seated on horseback to her left. At her suggestion, Jalist had kept out of sight until Crovis was gone. “Sure you don’t want to accompany us to Hesod? Should be great fun.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, unless you manage to find an army between here and there.” Jalist tugged at the strap of his long axe. “Listen, I’ll ride with you until we reach the western mountains, but that’s as far as I can go. I told Locke I was going south.”

Aeko nodded. “And as I recall, you promised King Typherius that you’d go back to Lyos.”

Jalist scowled. “Your point?”

Aeko drummed her fingers on the hilt of her adamune. Finally, she said, “Oaths are made of air.”

Jalist’s dark eyes narrowed. “Strange thing for an Isle Knight to say.”

“I’m talking about oaths, not honor.”

“I thought Isle Knights saw those as basically the same thing.”

Aeko glanced at Sang Wei, who looked even more uncomfortable than before. She chided herself for having spoken so openly. “Never mind. We should go.”

She started to turn her horse about, but Jalist said, “What do you think you’re going to do when you get to Hesod? Start a siege? The Bloody Prince has an army the gods would envy. Don’t you know he’ll tear you to pieces in five seconds?”

“This isn’t my first campaign, Dwarr. I’m not foolish enough to think I can take Hesod with twenty-four swords. I’m just here to help Locke. If he made it out of the city with his friend, they’ll need help getting east in one piece.”

“Suppose he and Igrid didn’t make it out. Suppose Locke got captured. What then?”

Aeko smirked. “Then we’ll rescue him.”

Jalist’s eyes narrowed again. “Forgive me, but I don’t think sneaking into a city is your style, Knight-Captain.”

“My Knighthood doesn’t depend on my armor. This may surprise you, Dwarr, but I’m capable of fighting without it.”

“I don’t doubt that. But to get into Hesod, are you capable of posing as some heartless sellsword or a well-raped woman in chains? Are you capable of slitting sleeping men’s throats or stabbing them in the back?”

Aeko turned to Sang Wei. “Ride ahead of the column. I’m trusting you and your spyglass to alert us of any Dhargots or Lochurites between here and Hesod. We can’t flee in this snow, so if they see us before we see them, we’ll have to fight, no matter the odds. Understood?”

Sang Wei paled but nodded. “You can trust me, Knight-Captain.”

I hope so.
“I know,” Aeko said.

Sang Wei turned his horse and rode ahead of the others. With a final glance at the disappearing azure banners flying over Atheion, Aeko rode down to join her Knights. At her approach, they stiffened in their saddles. In their stern expressions, Aeko saw loyalty tinged with doubt. She could hardly blame them.

“We are lost in a land of enemies,” she began. “Our brother, Sir Locke, is somewhere to the north, fighting alone. By now, all of you have heard about the sword he carries… where it came from, how he came to possess it. Some of you may believe that the Light is at work here. Others may not.”

Her Knights stirred uncomfortably. Since leaving the Lotus Isles, there had been almost no mention of Knightswrath from either Crovis or Aeko. While the former did not want to fuel faith and interest in a potential rival, Aeko had not wanted to risk her Knights’ loyalty by expressing belief in what many might regard as a superstition. She regretted that now.

“We have already buried many of our brothers and sisters in the cold ground… and before this is finished, it could be that there will be no one left to bury
us
.” Aeko paused. She saw her Knights’ discomfort grow. “I have no words to warm away the chill you’re feeling. But like you, I have memorized the words of the Codex Lotius… some of which Sir Wei repeated at my defense.”

A few Knights smiled.

“I do not pretend to know the will of the Light, the gods, or the shade of Fâyu Jinn. But let those words be the fire that warms your sword arm,” Aeko continued. “We will meet our enemies. We will find Sir Locke, and we will defend him with our hearts’ blood. I swear this oath on the graves of our comrades, on the ashes of my failures, and on the steel I still have strength to swing.” As she finished, her voice echoed in the morning air just as the snow began to fall.

For a few anxious seconds, no one spoke. Then her Knights cheered.

Aeko led them north, after Sang Wei. Jalist rode beside her. “I thought you didn’t put much stock in oaths,” he said in a low voice.

Aeko pretended not to hear him.

Rowen Locke had been prowling the streets of Hesod for days. He’d entered the city with every intention of marching straight to the palace, summoning Knightswrath’s full power, and avenging Igrid by killing the Bloody Prince—even if it cost him his life. But he’d put that aside when he heard about some two hundred Iron Sisters trapped in the temple. He decided to save them in Igrid’s honor.

He’d been tempted to use Knightswrath’s power to free them by carving and burning an escape route clean through the Dhargothi lines and perhaps even the walls of Hesod, but unleashing that much uncontrollable power was just as likely to kill the Iron Sisters as it was to destroy their enemies. So he’d rented a room at a nearby inn, hid his kingsteel armor under a loose floorboard, and gone out to assess the situation at the besieged temple.

He saw at once that the situation was hopeless. The Iron Sisters were trapped on all sides. At least a thousand Dhargots crowded the streets, huddled behind mantelets and overturned carts. Between storms of arrows unleashed into the temple, they hurled vile insults. Meanwhile, the Bloody Prince’s catapults fired day and night, as though their only purpose were to reduce the great temple to rubble, one stone at a time—and they were well on their way.

The temple walls bore cracks wide enough for a man to march through. Once in a while, an Iron Sister would appear and fire an arrow through the cracks, then disappear before scores of Dhargothi archers could return fire. The Iron Sisters were obviously outnumbered and all but beaten, and the Bloody Prince was just toying with them. Sooner or later, he would either flood the breached temple with warriors or have his catapults hurl enough smoke inside that the Iron Sisters would either suffocate or be forced to surrender.

Rowen thought of Igrid.
They won’t surrender. They’ll die in battle if they can, but if it comes to it, they’ll cut their own throats before they let the Dhargots take them alive again.

He touched Knightswrath’s hilt through his cloak, readjusting the latter to make sure the telltale weapon was thoroughly hidden. He wondered again if he could sow some kind of rebellion within the city. He’d considered trying to fight his way to the dungeons in case any Iron Sisters had been caught and returned to their cells. But two nights earlier, he’d met a Dhargothi jailor at one of the taverns, caught the man in an alley afterward, and determined after harsh questioning that the dungeons of Hesod were empty.

After disposing of the jailor’s body, along with the body of another Dhargot who’d caught him dropping the corpse of the first into the sewers, he’d begun looking elsewhere for potential allies. The Bloody Prince had arrived in Hesod with plenty of slaves, mostly captives taken from Cassica and other cities. Rowen heard that some of them had risen up to support the Iron Sisters, to no avail. Rowen even considered freeing slaves by killing their masters, one at a time, then trying to convince the slaves to join him in saving the Iron Sisters trapped in the temple, but he quickly dismissed the idea as even more ludicrous than his determination to save the Iron Sisters in the first place.

As for the people of the city, it seemed that all the Hesodi with a will to fight had either been culled long ago or had died fighting beside the Iron Sisters when Igrid managed to spring them from the dungeons. Despite the grim sight of the besieged temple before him, the thought of Igrid’s accomplishment made him smile. It seemed almost impossible that she, alone, could have freed the Iron Sisters from imprisonment, but he’d heard the story in the streets. Besides, he could imagine no other scenario that could have thrown Hesod into such a commotion. Yet she had died, and the Iron Sisters’ freedom had been short lived.

Gods, Igrid, why didn’t you wait for me?

He wondered what he would have done had Igrid waited. Would he have helped her rescue the Iron Sisters or refused, saying that his first priority was aiding one of the other Free Cities, taking Knightswrath back to the Isles, or confronting Chorlga? He blushed, afraid he knew the answer.

But I’m here now. If I can just get those women out of the temple…

He shook his head. He could neither distract so many Dhargots, let alone defeat them, nor use the sewers to slip into the temple—if such a route existed, the Iron Sisters surely would have used it before. In fact, Rowen had already been in the sewers, and though he guessed that one of the tunnels did indeed run beneath the temple, no grate or cistern led upward. After searching and searching, he’d found nothing but a ceiling of solid rock.