Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

Pulling on his boots, he thought back to legends he’d heard on the Lotus Isles, about Dragonkin who leeched so much power off dragons that they went mad. He wondered if they resembled how Silwren had looked on the plains and when she’d woken him just before: blazing white but ghostly, as though she were more magic than flesh, with clouds of mist that might have been wings unfurling behind her.

He toyed again with the idea of waking Jalist then left, one hand on his sword hilt. The common room was nearly empty. A few drunken patrons glanced up at him, but without his armor and tabard, he didn’t earn a second glance.

The night air was colder than he’d anticipated, and a chill swept through him. He wondered if the coming winter or his own fears had caused it. Then he spotted Captain Reygo’s guards. They were slumped against the outside of the inn, fast asleep. Rowen frowned. He doubted they had gone to sleep of their own volition.

He glanced around, looking for Silwren. He half hoped not to find her. Then he saw her waiting across the street in a slant of moonlight, very much flesh and blood. Her long platinum tresses hung past her waist, and her simple gown seemed as thin as a whisper.

He felt his pulse quicken. He approached her quickly, whispering, “What in Jinn’s name are you—”

“Time for answers, Knight. Walk close behind me. Say nothing, and we will pass their guards unseen.” She turned and began walking, nearly gliding over the cobblestones.

Rowen followed, feeling as if he were trailing a ghost, her lithe body outlined by moonlight. Anticipating questions from a squad of guardsmen, he tried to ready some kind of excuse, but a fisherman passed them without even looking up. A moment later, a stableboy stepped out and pissed in the street, only a few yards away, then scratched himself and went back inside without so much as a nod.

Silwren led him over a walkway, carefully weaving around a young couple kissing on the bridge. Despite the late hour, clerics and guards were milling about the Scrollhouse, sitting on the steps or leaning and chatting against the ornate pillars.

Even invisible, I bet they’ll notice if I run into them.
He turned sideways just in time to avoid colliding with a passing scribe. As he hurried after Silwren, he considered the fact that she must have cast some kind of spell on the guards left at the inn. When the guards woke, they might very well suspect what had happened. That meant he would have to leave Atheion that night—once Silwren had completed whatever task she had in mind.

And what about the Iron Sister? Do I still mean to save her?
He squelched that thought for the time being.

Luckily, the doors of the Scrollhouse were open. Still, Rowen and Silwren had to slip past four Noshan guards who were speaking in whispers. Rowen cursed himself as he bumped into one of them, but the man only mistook him for one of his comrades. He slowed, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation after he caught the word
Dhargot
and saw the guards grimacing and shaking their heads, but Silwren hurried him on.

Inside, they passed through an antechamber that smelled of tea and lamp oil. Long oaken tables were crowded with clerics of Armahg. Even so late, dozens were busy studying. Despite the number of people around, the chamber was so eerily quiet that Rowen found himself holding his breath as they passed through.

Silwren led him up a broad stairwell lit with ornate candelabras wrought of silver and gold, down a hallway lined with doors and tapestries, through an archway, and into the greatest library he had ever seen. She navigated the building with such ease that he wondered if she had been there before. He wanted to ask, but he did not know if the magic that prevented people from seeing them concealed their voices as well, so he followed in awed silence. The chamber sported huge, vaulted ceilings and pillars of carved marble. The books were what he found stunning, though. Hundreds upon hundreds of shelves were each denoted with great brass plaques covered in writing he did not recognize. The shelves were heaped with stacks and rows of books, plus countless scrolls bound in leather and ribbon. His mind reeled at all the knowledge the library must have contained—including knowledge of the Isle Knights—but again, Silwren hurried him on.

They passed through another chamber, where more clerics studied at long wooden tables, into a second fantastic library, every bit as huge and well stocked as the first. Unlike the first, though, the second also contained a great many artifacts set on pedestals, some enclosed in glass: suits of ancient-looking armor, curiously shaped pottery, and devices whose origins and purpose he could not guess. Then they passed broken iron statues. Though most stood, dull-glinting shards of them lay scattered at their feet. They appeared to be warriors, but some had horns; others were ghastly and contorted. One had bronze sickle-swords melded to each hand. He noticed that all of those that still had their heads intact had dark, eerily hollow eye sockets. He stopped in his tracks.

These were Jolym… living men made out of the stuff of the earth, fashioned by the Dragonkin.

He reminded himself that whatever life spark had been cast into them had withered or been destroyed at least ten centuries ago. Still, all those blank eye sockets and cruel expressions made him reach for his sword, as though they might come back to life at any moment.

“They cannot harm you. They are just relics now.”
Silwren spoke directly into his mind.

She stood just a few feet away, her eyes fixed on him. Despite Silwren’s assurance, Rowen turned his back on the statues only with the greatest difficulty.

She led him off the main pathway, through a maze of aisles and shelves, to a simple wooden door guarded by a huge, fierce-looking man who wore the sigil of Armahg on his armor. There was a chair next to him, but he stood as straight as a statue, a spear in hand and a shortsword at his belt. Rowen tensed. There was no way they could open the door and get past this guard without him noticing.
What does she mean to do to him?

Silwren approached the towering guard, reached out, and gently pressed her fingertips to his forehead. The man stiffened. Then he tumbled backward, eyes closing. Rowen rushed to help her but, with surprising strength, Silwren caught the giant guard and lowered him soundlessly into his chair. Rowen feared that the guard’s spear would clatter loudly to the stone floor, but to his surprise, it hovered in mid-air until Silwren seized it and leaned it against the wall. She approached the wooden door. It was sealed by an intricate lock, but when she touched it, the door swung open, creaking slightly. Rowen glanced about, still fearing they would be discovered, but he saw no guards rushing to inspect the noise.

Silwren caught Rowen’s arm in an oddly powerful grip and half guided, half pushed him through the door. As she did so, her voice rang out in his mind.
“He isn’t hurt. Neither are the guards outside the Borrowed Crown. But we must finish this before they wake.”

Rowen nodded dumbly. Silwren closed the door behind them. He found himself in a narrow, claustrophobic corridor lit by only a single torch bracketed to the wall.

At the end of the corridor, Silwren led him down an equally narrow stairwell. Rowen remembered that the Scrollhouse was built upon a skiff floating on the sea. Momentarily puzzled, he wondered if that meant they were underwater. He had the dizzying thought that the skiff might extend below the waterline like the hold of a ship. He wondered if other skiffs throughout Atheion were built likewise and what might be hidden in them.

At the bottom of the stairwell stood another locked door, carved with symbols too worn to be recognizable. She touched the lock, and it sprang with a click. The rusty iron hinges grated loudly as she pushed the door open. Rowen winced, expecting to find startled clerics and armed guards on the other side. Instead, he saw only darkness.

Silwren raised one hand, and wytchfire coursed the length of her forearm, casting an eerie purple glow on their surroundings. The new chamber was almost completely empty, save for a few old tables and chairs as well as dusty shelves piled with tattered pages. The dust was so thick that Rowen had trouble breathing.

Silwren said, “We are visible now. There is no one down here, but we should still be cautious.”

Something in her voice chilled him even more than the thought of all the swords he might have to face when it was time to leave. Part of him wanted to run and face them right away, but he forced himself to follow, half afraid of what Silwren might do if he stalled.

Silwren led him through another door, down another narrow staircase, and into another gigantic library even larger than the other two. Unlike the others, the room filled him inexplicably with a mixture of sadness and dread.

Aside from the illumination offered by Silwren’s wytchfire, the space was utterly dark. He fought the impulse to draw Knightswrath or follow her closely as a frightened child would follow his mother.
I am a Knight of the Crane,
he reminded himself, only to jump a moment later when the waving illumination of Silwren’s wytchfire caused the shadows to move.

Silwren led them through another maze of bookshelves, deeper and deeper into the chamber. Rowen had the odd feeling that he was passing farther back in time with every step. Fear quickened his pulse, but he fought to keep his breathing in check, less out of pride than a dislike for how the sound echoed in the vast chamber. Rowen thought back to how large the Scrollhouse had appeared from the outside, but he had the feeling that inside, somehow, it was even larger.

Finally, Silwren stopped before a shelf heaped not only with scrolls but with ancient jewelry and scraps of armor as well. She waved, and a sphere of wytchfire rose from her hand to hover in the air above them, casting its magical light over the shelf, stretching their shadows across the cold stone floor. Silwren chose a single great scroll bound in leather with ornate brass clasps. Oddly, it bore no dust. She gazed at it a moment, as though she were reading it without unrolling its contents, then passed it to him with slow reverence.

“To you, Rowen Locke, Knight of the Crane, I entrust this scroll, penned by Fâyu Jinn himself, detailing the lost history of the Shattering War and the founding of your Order.”

Rowen wondered if he should respond. His mind raced, but he could think of nothing fitting for the occasion. He stared down at the priceless scroll—a thing that, like Knightswrath, he did not deserve—then back at Silwren. Her expression was unreadable, as stony as the faces of the shattered Jolym he had passed earlier.

She said, “The scroll will tell you many things, Knight, not the least of which is why I have to die.”

Chapter Ten

The Sorcerer-General

T
he Dhargothi army spread across the Simurgh Plains like a cloud of silk and steel. From his vantage point on a hill, Fadarah stared, shaking his head. He saw men, horses, and chariots by the thousands, milling near siege engines that bristled in the morning light. In the distance, a great column of war elephants waited. Fifty strong, fitted with gigantic plates of armor on their heads and massive legs, they wore saddles the size of chariots that could hold half a dozen archers. White tusks glinted in the sun like massive sabers of bone.

“So many,” said Shade.

Fadarah nodded, momentarily speechless. The whole of the Dhargothi empire seemed to have been emptied onto the plains. And they had been busy. The massive corral below was filled with prisoners, all women and children, taken from the western cities. From time to time, a Dhargot would swagger toward the pens, select a woman from the crowd, drag her out, and rape her in full view of everyone.

Fadarah winced, trying to block out the screams. “How far have they gone?”

“Hesod. They’ve left a garrison at Syros, too.” Shade pointed, just as the wind rustled the crimson greatwolves sewn into his bone-white cloak. “That was Quorim.”

In the distance, visible only to eyes enhanced by magic, a forest of stakes swayed with bodies beyond the walls of a fallen city. Fadarah’s scowl deepened at the sight of the smoking ruin. “I said they could have the cities. I didn’t say they could do this.”

“I reminded Karhaati of that just three days ago…
before
he marched on Hesod and Quorim.”

“And what was the Bloody Prince’s response?”

Shade’s voice brimmed with revulsion. “He said I was not his liege. He also said that the harsh treatment of enemies is required by the Way of Ears and boosts Dhargothi morale.”

Seated on horseback next to Shade, Brahasti chuckled. “So it is.”

Fadarah turned to face the tall, frightfully thin Dhargot. “My orders are orders, Brahasti. Not suggestions. I remind you that you’re lucky to be alive. If you want to earn back our good favor, you will remember that.”

The Dhargot’s expression sobered, though his eyes still glinted with malice. “You need not worry, Sorcerer-General. One lifetime has not enough years to forget your kind instruction.”

Fadarah heard the derision in the man’s voice but chose to ignore it. He straightened in the saddle of his gigantic bloodmare, using magic as well as the reins to control the beast when it tried to turn and bite Shade’s mount. Fadarah was weary of the giant horse’s moods, but he had little choice in terms of mounts. No other horse could support the weight of an armored half Olg.

Fadarah sighed, tapping his finger idly on the hilt of a massive two-handed sword strapped to his bloodmare. He had no taste for what he had to do next. He glanced over his shoulder. A dozen Shel’ai followed him, all in bone-white cloaks matching Shade’s. He studied their faces, freely reading their thoughts. He sensed their loyalty and their trust, as well as their loathing for what was happening below.

He raised his voice, addressing them all. “There are no clean wars. Fix your mind on our plan, our purpose. We are not monsters. Though we do what we must, we will preserve all the innocent blood we can—”

Brahasti laughed. Fadarah turned, raised one eyebrow, and urged his bloodmare so close that the Dhargot’s horse recoiled. Lightning fast, Fadarah backhanded Brahasti from his saddle. The Dhargot fell hard onto the grasslands, wide eyed, blood pouring from his face. Shade smiled, stifling laughter. Fadarah glowered at Brahasti as the horrified Dhargot gingerly touched his nose and sagging broken jaw, then lifted his gaze to meet his followers again.

He could tell, as their violet eyes met, that they all applauded his actions but wanted him to go further, to conjure wytchfire from his fingertips and scour the fallen Dhargot to cinders. But Fadarah would not go that far. Brahasti still had his uses.

“I’ll say this again,” he addressed the crowd. “We will kill and burn when we must. We will forgive when we can. But the time for forgiveness has not yet arrived.” He turned to Shade. “Heal him.” He pointed at Brahasti, who was shaking, though Fadarah could not tell if it was pain or laughter. “But leave his robes and face bloodied.”

Fadarah rode slowly down the hill, into the sprawling tent city that was the Dhargothi camp. Everywhere, warriors in scaled armor and black silk fell to their knees as soon as they saw him. The prostration spread like wytchfire through the camp. Soon, thousands of armed men were kneeling in the mud. Fadarah ignored a sudden rush of exhilaration and led his column of Shel’ai through the camp, to the gigantic crimson tent of Prince Karhaati. Brahasti followed, slumped in his saddle. Though Shade had healed him, blood still covered Brahasti’s face and the front of his clothes as a reminder for not only Brahasti, but also for the so-called Bloody Prince who commanded him.

The Bloody Prince’s tent was wreathed in armed men, but all stood aside and fell to their knees at Fadarah’s approach. Shade and Brahasti dismounted. Zeia dismounted as well, removing a helmet that revealed her close-cropped hair, which was black—a rare thing for her kind. Fadarah stopped her with a look.

“No, Zeia. Things could get heated in there. If the Bloody Prince calls for his guards, see that we aren’t interrupted.”

The fierce young woman nodded hesitantly. Fadarah stalked into the Bloody Prince’s tent. Shade followed, with Brahasti in tow.

The tent’s interior reeked of burnt sulfur and uncooked meat. Fadarah’s eyes watered from the stink. He spotted the prince on the ground. The only thing separating the Dhargothi prince from the cold earth was a bearskin rug and the body of a slave woman. Fadarah tensed. Fadarah had not hesitated to intervene after walking in on Brahasti abusing some slave or prostitute. But Karhaati, the Bloody Prince, son of the Red Emperor and commander of the thousands of armed men outside, required a different tack.

Fadarah glanced at Shade and saw both disgust and warning. He did not look at Brahasti, fearing he would see a sadistic glint in the man’s eyes. Fadarah hesitated before he stepped forward, waved his hand, and used magic to wrench Karhaati off the crying woman’s body. The burly prince blinked in surprise but made no sound.

Fadarah knelt beside the woman. She was young, so young. He hesitated, though he knew what had to be done. He touched the poor woman’s breast and sent a shock of wytchfire through her trembling heart. He straightened and faced the Bloody Prince.

Karhaati stood, arms folded, making no move to cover himself. His face was livid. “I wasn’t done with her yet. Why did you kill her?”

“So there would be no witnesses, no one to tell how the Bloody Prince was burnt to cinders for disobedience.” Wytchfire sprang from Fadarah’s hands, coursing the full length of his body, further blackening his armor. Catching his own reflection in a shield leaning against a weapons rack, he saw his own eyes flare like white fire wreathed in violet flame.

Karhaati recoiled. “I am the emperor’s son—”

“You are my servant. So is your father. If you doubt this, die now. I’m sure your father would be glad to send another to do our bidding.”

Karhaati opened his mouth to reply then thought better of it. He stood in silence.

Fadarah scrutinized the man, wondering if he was even worth sparing. Like all Dhargots, Karhaati was tall. About thirty winters old, he was thickly built with a bloody, impaled dragon tattooed over his shaved chest. His eyes were painted, and he had the traditional shaved head and braided goatee of a Dhargothi warrior, though he wore no necklace of human ears.

Fadarah turned slightly and saw it nearby, resting on a pile of clothes. “Dhargots have a strange habit of testing the patience of their rulers.” He turned and waved. An invisible gust of magic drove Brahasti to his knees between them. “I grow tired of this trait.”

Karhaati’s expression darkened. “What is
that
doing in my camp?” He pointed at Brahasti as if the man were a rotting corpse.

Brahasti snickered but said nothing.

“He is here because I wish it. And because, for all his crimes, he obeys far more readily than you do.”

Karhaati’s expression did not soften. “My father banished him. To breathe the same air as him is—”

“A disgrace you will bear, just as you will bear another.” Wytchfire continued to roil at Fadarah’s fingertips, tiring him, though he made sure he showed no sign of weariness. He pointed at Brahasti, and the Dhargot struggled to his feet. “Henceforth, Brahasti el Tarq will command your legions.”

Karhaati’s face went livid again. “The Dead God will breathe first!” The prince turned toward the weapons rack and reached for a sword.

Fadarah braced, deciding to wrestle the sword from the man’s grasp. But before the Bloody Prince could act, Shade stepped forward and gestured, sending the sword flying out of the Bloody Prince’s reach. Shade’s other hand raised, awash in wytchfire.

Fadarah shook his head, stopping him, and took a step forward. Brahasti scurried out of the way. Fadarah dismissed his wytchfire a split second before he grabbed Karhaati by the throat and tossed him to the cold ground. The Bloody Prince cursed, rolled, and came up quickly. Fadarah was impressed, though he was careful to betray no sign of this.

“I’ll not hand my necklace over to that simpering coward.”

“I didn’t say you’d have to. You’ll still ride at the head of your legions. Take credit for Brahasti’s victories, if you like. But if you wish to honor my alliance with your father, you will obey. And know that whatever disgrace you feel is
your
doing, not mine.”

Karhaati blinked, appearing confused.

“I gave orders. Killing on the battlefield is one thing, but what I saw out there”—Fadarah pointed to the tent flap—“like what I saw in here”—he gestured to the dead slave girl—“has nothing to do with battle.”

Then the Bloody Prince laughed. “You have power, Shel’ai. No one would deny that. But you have a child’s understanding of war.” The Dhargot picked up his necklace of ears and slipped it over his head. He donned a black silk robe next. His movements were slow and derisive.

Fadarah asked, “How soon can you march east?”

Karhaati shrugged. He stepped over the dead girl to reach a table, poured a goblet of wine, drained it, then poured another. “This is not a raid, Shel’ai. I have not left Dhargoth just to burn villages and gain slaves. I am trying to expand my father’s empire—what will be
my
empire, in time.” He drained his second cup of wine then poured a third. “That means I must fortify the realms I seize. Something
you
did not do.” He gave Fadarah a derisive smile.

“I
gave
you those realms, Dhargot. I bought your assistance with them. Do not forget that.”

“So you did.” Karhaati took another drink. “I’m still undecided, so far as Atheion is concerned.”

“I see no need for indecision. I gave you the Free Cities taken by the Throng, and I’m giving you time to claim and reinforce them, before you eventually help us take the Wytchforest. Atheion was never part of the bargain.”

“So you said.” To Fadarah’s amazement, Karhaati yawned. “But Atheion is quite a prize. My father—”

“Is not here. I am.” He took a step forward. “Atheion will not be touched… yet. Is that understood?”

Karhaati smirked. “Of course. Still, we need to shore up our southern flank. So I sent my cousin, Jaanti, to frighten them. He is a man of many skills. Diplomacy is not one of them.”

“Fine. Leave Ziraari’s host at Hesod, but march your own east, toward Cassica. You may take the city, but hold there.”

Karhaati’s smirk became a frown. “Why stop there? Lyos—”

“Lyos was not part of the deal. I have no intention of waiting months before we proceed to the Wytchforest.
If
I grant you Lyos, it will be later, when the time is right.”

“Or perhaps you want revenge on them yourself?”

Fadarah thought back to the Battle of Lyos, which had seen the Nightmare critically wounded, his Throng decimated by internal revolt, and his Shel’ai—even himself—forced to flee for their lives. His pulse quickened, but he shook his head. “This campaign is not about revenge, Human.”

“Isn’t it?” Karhaati sat in his chair, drained his cup, and held it out. Brahasti grimaced but obediently fetched the pitcher and refilled the goblet. “As you say, Sorcerer-General. Our alliance shall be honored.” He drank.