Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (10 page)

As the Jolym neared Pallantine Hill, they’d been spotted. They might even have been mistaken for Isle Knights at first. Some Red Watch officer had probably gone down to meet them, flanked by a dozen or so men who weren’t expecting trouble. Then the slaughter had started.

Jalist gripped his spear and managed a brief sprint before exhaustion overpowered him again. He fell, gasping for breath, then pushed himself back up and continued at a stumble. His vision clouded so that he nearly collided with the drovers before he spotted them.

Three young men gazed fearfully at Pallantine Hill. A small herd of sheep milled nearby. The Dwarr almost laughed at the expressions on their faces. He wondered what he looked like to them—wild, bloody, and sweating—then the glint of the Jolym beckoned from a distance.

One of the drovers had a horse. Little more than a pack mule, it stood just a little taller than the drover in front of it. Still, Jalist nearly wept with gratitude. He went straight at the man holding the reins. The man backed up, wide eyed, and reached for his knife. His friends raised quarterstaffs and blocked Jalist’s path. The Dwarr considered trying to explain to them that he needed the horse to warn the city, but he doubted they would believe him.

Jalist drew a stiletto and threw it. The pommel struck one of the young men in the nose. He shrieked and backpedaled, dropping his quarterstaff. Blood welled between his fingers. Jalist charged before the others could react.

Gripping his spear, Jalist feigned a lunge at the drover’s face. When the young man moved his quarterstaff to block, Jalist sank low and swept the man’s legs out from under him. Rather than kill him, Jalist feigned another stab at the drover’s face that sent him scurrying for cover. Jalist faced the final drover, who made the mistake of trying to mount his horse.

Jalist tossed aside his spear, seized the man by the back of the tunic, and hauled him down. He punched him twice—enough to drive the air from the young man’s lungs but not enough to do serious damage—then dropped the lad onto the plains. He caught the pack horse’s reins before the skittish beast could run away.

“Easy, poor girl. Or boy. Whatever you are.”

He tried to haul himself into the saddle, stumbled when his weakened legs buckled, then gathered his strength and managed to mount the horse. “I know you aren’t built for speed, but if you’ve got any, now’s the time to use it.”

He patted the pack horse’s neck then called over his shoulder to the stunned drovers. “Come get your horse at the gates, if I don’t get her killed trying to play the hero.” Then Jalist drove his heels into the horse’s flanks and raced toward Pallantine Hill.

CHAPTER NINE

A New Task

R
owen Locke stood at the edge of the dais and looked down upon the tangled green depths of the Wytchforest. Though his bodyguards stood in the distance, he was otherwise alone. He was glad of that. After leaving Captain Briel, the ability to sense the thoughts and feelings of those around him had seemed to intensify until the Sylvs’ loathing and mistrust overwhelmed him. Torn between casting Knightswrath into a well and seeking isolation, he chose the latter. Luckily, as quickly as it had manifested, the ability dimmed. Now, Rowen could read the thoughts of his captors only by gauging the respectful coldness in their blue eyes.

He faced the wytchwood trees, took a deep breath, and let it go. He couldn’t smell smoke anymore, which surprised him, though he wondered if that was only due to his height, perhaps half a mile above the forest floor. He glanced over his shoulder. The palace of King Loslandril loomed in the distance, a splendid amalgamation of stone and wood, carved halfway into the stunning white broadness of the World Tree. Something in its simple but elegant design reminded him of Saikaido Temple, where he had trained to be an Isle Knight, though he knew the Sylvan palace was hundreds, even thousands of years older.

“Is your king still locked inside? If he’s done foaming at the mouth? Perhaps he’d like to come out for a little chat.”

His bodyguards did not answer, though the way more than one touched his sword hilt made it clear that Rowen would not be permitted anywhere near their king, let alone inside the palace. That suited Rowen fine. He still had half a mind to cut the Sylvan king in half, damn the consequences.

As for the palace, Rowen had seen its interior only briefly, after King Loslandril’s guards had trundled him and hauled him through to the other side. There, a secret walkway led to the tomb of Fâyu Jinn, where the king had hoped to kill Silwren when she came to rescue Rowen. Silwren had indeed been mortally wounded before Rowen could fight his way free, but something had saved her—if only so that she could give her life to rekindle Knightswrath and give Rowen the power to save the Wytchforest.

That was Fâyu Jinn. It had to be.

Rowen had seen it himself, though he hardly dared believe his own memories of those mad, frantic events: a giant ghostly figure in the armor of a Knight of the Lotus appeared to heal Silwren after she’d been struck down by a cursed blade. Silwren, blazing with wytchfire, had thrown herself on Knightswrath then melted into the blade.

Rowen shuddered. He touched the sword’s hilt and thought he felt a slight tremor of response. He withdrew his hand. The thought of Silwren filled him with aching loss of a friend and the overwhelming knowledge of her sacrifice, coupled with the knowledge that he had failed to save her.

He thought back to the first time he’d encountered her, in the depths of Cadavash. El’rash’lin had been there, too. Using the ancient magic of Namundvar’s Well, El’rash’lin had given Rowen a glimpse into the divine, into the Light itself. The indescribable, selfless peace he’d felt there hadn’t lasted. And Rowen wished he could trim the memory from his mind completely.

The thought amused him. El’rash’lin had given him something that countless priests and pilgrims would have killed for. And all he wanted to do was throw it away. Like the knowledge that Silwren had sacrificed herself for a higher cause, it seemed to broaden the ocean of doubt within him rather than comfort him.

His cold amusement vanished in a sudden rush of nausea. He rubbed his eyes. Thoughts of Silwren turned to thoughts of his brother, of Kayden’s mad look of gratitude as he’d died on Rowen’s sword. He thought, too, of the Nightmare sloughing up Pallantine Hill toward the city of Lyos, howling like a scalded bull with its skin on fire.

He tried to calm himself by thinking of Fadarah, remembering his confrontation with the infamous half-Olgish leader of the Shel’ai. He tried to reconjure the feeling of brutal satisfaction he’d felt when Knightswrath cleaved clean through the giant’s armor, but the thought of Fadarah only heightened Rowen’s nausea. He remembered the look of grief in Fadarah’s violet eyes. At the time, Rowen had taken that as the despair of a man who realized his cause was lost. Now he wondered if that grief hadn’t been caused by the sight of Knightswrath and the knowledge that the burning sword meant Silwren was dead.

Rowen sank to one knee, retching. Grasping at his stomach but meeting only armor, he retched until he wept. The forest far below blurred. He closed his eyes and remained kneeling until he caught his breath. He thought of all the other platforms beneath this one, which held homes, shops, and temples of the Sylvan capital. He glanced back at his bodyguards.

“My apologies if I just threw up on somebody’s rooftop.” He rose slowly, using Knightswrath’s sheathed blade as a crutch. “Seems we Knights don’t live up to the stories any more than you Sylvs do.” He wiped his eyes then his mouth. “Gods, anybody have any wine with them?”

To his surprise, one of the bodyguards stepped forward and offered him a small silvery flask. Rowen nodded his thanks then took a drink. The flask contained only water, but Rowen rinsed out his mouth, spat over the side of the dais, then took another drink. He started to pass the flask back to its owner, but the Sylvan bodyguard shook his head and stepped back.

“My thanks,” Rowen said.

“It wasn’t a gift,” a voice said. Rowen turned to see Briel leaning against a stone bench. “He just doesn’t want anything a Human’s touched. Am I right?”

The bodyguard faced his captain but did not answer. Briel waved him off and approached. Rowen felt a rush of embarrassment at the thought that Briel had seen him retching, but that turned to shame when he saw the Sylvan captain’s bandaged hand. “I swear, Briel, I didn’t know—”

“That your damn sword likes to cook any hand that isn’t yours?” Briel smiled thinly. “No, I don’t suppose you did. Besides, it seems to be a recent development, since I remember Captain Essidel once held that sword without getting his palm crisped.” Briel stood at the very edge of the dais and peered over, unflinching.

Rowen resisted the impulse to push him over. “Don’t your people believe in railings?”

“In the Shal’tiar, Sylvs are required to stand on the highest tree branch they can find then walk out and back blindfolded. It’s a sign of guts and balance.” Briel paused. “Not as high as this, though.” He stepped away from the edge. “A dumb test if you ask me, since we spend most of our lives on the ground, fighting Olgrym.” He waved at the bodyguards. “Leave us.”

When they were gone, he gestured to the stone bench. Neither man sat.

“Something’s happened,” Briel said. “Several things, actually. None of them good.”

“Is one of them you saying I’m still not allowed to leave this damn forest?”

Briel shook his head. “Actually, one of them is me sending you out of here tonight, right now, before sundown.”

Rowen blinked.

“Seravin just died.” Briel plucked the silver flask from Rowen’s grasp, took a sip, then passed it back. “No big surprise, given how badly he was hurt, but still far from welcome news. Because it means, more than ever, that I’m in charge of the whole damn Sylvan nation.”

Rowen wondered if Briel was joking, but the flicker of panic in the man’s eyes proved otherwise.

“King Loslandril has ordered you put to death.”

Rowen swallowed hard. He started to reach for Knightswrath but stopped himself. “When?”

“An hour ago. And this morning. And half a dozen times before that.” Briel smiled thinly. “Obviously, the fact that you’re still alive means my men are more comfortable taking orders from me than they are from a raving madman. But that could change. Seravin was a general. Popular, too. He could be a fool, but he was no mindless lapdog. Had he lived, I think he would have sided with you. He might have even deposed Loslandril without bloodshed. Now—”

“Doesn’t the king have any other children? Nephews? A cousin?”

“Sylvan families aren’t as large as Human broods. Loslandril had one son—and Silwren turned him into kindling.” He added, “Don’t bristle. I know the spineless bastard deserved it. Anyway, besides Quivalen, there
was
a nephew, living in the southern half of the forest, but the Olgrym killed him a week ago. There
might
be a distant aunt of royal blood, lost somewhere in the forest, but we can’t find her. She’s probably dead, too. And even if she isn’t, she’s old, even by Sylvan standards.”

“So you’re sending me away to save my life? Forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

“I’m not doing it for you. What I said about needing you here still stands. But something else has happened.” His voice took on a hard edge. “A scout came in, just a while after you left. For weeks now, we’ve been getting reports of Sylvan captives—
female
captives—being sent north. Instead of having their fun with them, the Olgrym are selling them to the Dhargots.” He paused. “Do I have to explain how strange that is?”

Rowen shook his head.

“Sylvan women know better than to be taken captive by Olgrym. They’ll slit their own throats before they let that happen. So at first, we thought the reports were just rumors. But they aren’t. Apparently, for weeks, some of the Olgrym have been using some kind of poison on their arrows to sedate Sylvan captives. Only Olgrym don’t use poison. Or arrows, for that matter. They consider them weak. So the only reason they’d do that…”

“Is if Fadarah ordered them,” Rowen finished. “So while everything else was going on, Fadarah was also using Olgrym to collect Sylvan slaves for the Dhargots. Should I be surprised?”

“By
this,
yes.” Briel lowered his voice. “Tell me, Human, when the Throng was tearing through the Free Cities, how did Fadarah get so many of the survivors to join him afterward?”

Rowen thought of Jalist, who had briefly served under Fadarah as a sellsword. “Partly by fear, but also by treating them decent, all things considered. They were fed and well paid. No mass executions. No rapes—”

Briel nodded. “Exactly. I’m not surprised that Fadarah tried to convince us that the Isle Knights were our enemies. I’m not even surprised that he formed an alliance with the Olgrym and the Dhargots. But there are some things even Fadarah wouldn’t do.”

Rowen thought of the Unseen. “I don’t quite have as much faith in Fadarah’s sense of morality as you.” Something else occurred to him. “Wait, are you saying it
wasn’t
Fadarah?”

“That it was Chorlga, collecting Sylvan captives?” Briel shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Fadarah just got desperate. Gods know for all the harm he caused, the war hasn’t exactly gone the way he must have hoped. Either way, all this makes me nervous.” He lowered his voice further still, so that Rowen strained to hear. “There’s something Captain Essidel and I used to talk about. It kept us up more nights than I can count. What Olgrym do to Sylvan women if they capture them… well, if you know anything about my people, you’ve heard the stories.” Briel looked over the edge of the dais again. “But Fadarah himself was half Olgish. And a Shel’ai.”

“I remember,” Rowen said. “So?”

“Gods…” Briel rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “Besides Fadarah, have you ever seen a Shel’ai who wasn’t a Sylv?”

Rowen said, “No.”

“Even once?”

“No,” Rowen repeated.

“But Fadarah’s existence means it’s possible. You need a Sylvan mother, but the father could be something else. A Sylv, a Human, even an Olg.”

Rowen nodded slowly. “I suppose, but why—” Then he understood. “Gods!”

Briel answered with a grimacing smile. “I could be wrong. I
hope
I’m wrong. But the last thing this world needs is Chorlga, or someone like him, trying to breed Shel’ai slaves.”

The foul Dragonkin was undoubtedly involved somehow, just as he seemed to be involved in nearly all the misery that had befallen the people of Ruun in recent years. “Chorlga… I still haven’t even met him.”
And I’m supposed to kill him.

“Our king saw him, more than once, and it drove him from wisdom to madness.” Briel flexed the fingers of his broken hand. “From what I can gather, it was Chorlga who encouraged much of the animosity between Sylv and Shel’ai. But you probably already guessed that. Whether or not Chorlga’s responsible for these Sylvan women being taken captive, he’s still out there, working his devilry. The way that Dragonkin turned us all against each other, I half expect to turn around and find him laughing at me.”

“He’s not here.” Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. “Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do.”

“Do you think he knows about Silwren and Knightswrath?”

“That Silwren’s… gone?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so, or else he would have struck while we were vulnerable. I think he’s cooking up… something else. Back to these captives. You know where they are?”

Briel nodded. “My scout found a Dhargothi compound a week’s ride north of here, full of Sylvan captives. Women only. She said… she could hear what was going on inside.” The captain shuddered. “I don’t care whether Fadarah’s involved. I don’t care whether the Dhargots are trying to breed Shel’ai of their own or are just after what passes among Humans for pleasure. I want it stopped. And I want every man involved in this cut to ribbons.”

Rowen flashed back to the Dark Quarter of Lyos, where certain brutes visited their own brand of violence not just on women but on children, too. An old loathing crept up within him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Do what I can’t,” Briel said. “There’s still fighting in the forests. I still have to hunt down Doomsayer and his Olgrym, even if I have to chase them all the way back to Godsfall. I might be able to spare a single squad of men, but I have no officers left to lead them. Nobody familiar enough with the outer lands, anyway.”

“Do you really think they’ll follow me?”

“They will if I order it.”

“And afterward?”

Briel hesitated. “I still need you here, Isle Knight. But I need this done more. Besides, come back a hero, and maybe you can keep King Loslandril from having me put to death.”

Rowen saw a spark of fear in the Sylvan captain’s eyes. His mistrust of the man turned once more to sympathy. Nevertheless, he heard himself say, “I won’t promise I’ll come back.”