Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

Jalist said, “She means even less to me than you do. But I wouldn’t hand Fohl over to a Dhargot if I could help it. Sorry, friend. Just a little rule of mine.”

Rowen said, “You can’t have her. And we both know that if this comes to bloodshed, most of us here will die.”
Unless I forget about honor and have them shoot you full of arrows right now…
He remembered what he’d said to Jalist about Knightswrath, what he’d read in the scroll about how the dishonor of the Isle Knights, the Sylvs, and the other races had left the sword rusted and tarnished. If he killed Jaanti after swearing his safety, how long before Knightswrath began to rust again?

Jaanti tapped the hilt of his broadsword. Despite his precarious position, he seemed completely at ease. “Listen, Knight. Either one woman dies, or many die. The choice is yours.”

“There’s another way.” Rowen drew Knightswrath. “Single combat. You win, you take the woman—”

“The hell he does!” Igrid spat. She started to lift her bow, but Jalist grabbed her arm.

Rowen said, “You win, you take her. I win, she stays. And your men ride north and leave us in peace.”

Jaanti’s painted eyes narrowed. “I don’t think the woman will come quietly after you die. I think we’ll have to kill your friends, no matter what. I think you know that as well as I do. But I’m happy to start with you.”

The Dhargothi ambassador tossed aside his crossbow, letting it land heavily in the grass. He dismounted, turned, and passed the reins to one of his guards. “Don’t interfere.” He circled the cart and drew his sword.

Rowen barely sidestepped in time. Jaanti’s broadsword struck the straw cart, biting deep into the wood, but the big man wrenched it free before Rowen could counter. Rowen sidestepped again. He waved Jalist and Igrid back. Jalist lifted his shortbow.

Rowen shouted, “Stay out of this! Watch his guards, not me!”

He expected Jaanti to charge, but the Dhargot hung back, smirking, idly twirling his broadsword in slow, lazy figure-eights. “I haven’t fought an Isle Knight in years. This will be fun.”

Before Rowen could reply, the Dhargot pounced, unbelievably quick for a man his size. He swung at Rowen’s greaves then angled the blade up and hammered Rowen’s spaulders before Rowen could even bring his own sword into play. He slashed twice, but Jaanti had already backed off.

The Dhargot gave him a wolfish smile, lazily swinging his sword again. “If it weren’t for that swirly armor, I’d have lopped off your leg and arm by now. Better pick up the pace, Knight.”

Rowen cursed and held Knightswrath in a high guard.
I have to do better
.
Fâyu Jinn held this sword. He won a war with it. I can beat one dung-hearted princeling… or else I don’t deserve to wear this armor.

Jaanti stared at him, amused, and made no effort to counter his advance. Darkness had fallen, but Rowen saw the light of Armahg’s Eye wash down their swords. As he and his opponent circled each other, Rowen tried to keep from looking at the torches stuck in the ground, knowing they would ruin his vision. He braced himself and brought his sword down with both hands, angling for the gap between the Dhargot’s helm and spaulders.

Jaanti shrugged one great shoulder so the blow met his armor. He drove the pommel of his sword toward Rowen’s face. Rowen ducked, stepped back, lost sight of his opponent, then felt Jaanti’s blade drive into his cuirass.

The blow drove the wind out of him, but Rowen managed a quick stab at the Dhargot’s chest, gouging out a shard of his scale armor. Jaanti withdrew his blade, nearly slashing Rowen’s tabard in two. Rowen gasped for air and thought oddly of the tear that Igrid had inflicted the first time they spoke.

Can’t seem to keep my knighthood in one piece…

Jaanti stabbed for Rowen’s groin. He reacted on instinct, hammering the blow aside. The edge of the Dhargot’s sword scraped his greaves instead. Were it not for his armor, the Dhargot would have already hacked him to pieces with nearly every swing.

I must be faster. I must be—

Jaanti came at him again, a smirking, steely blur. The man might have been royalty, but he clearly knew his steel. Rowen blocked a flurry of fast, accurate swings. Then he saw an opening and countered, gouging another scale from Jaanti’s cuirass. Jaanti turned, offering him no target. The proper recourse was to step back, but Rowen swung again, leaving a bright scratch on the Dhargot’s armored hip. Another slash cleaved a silk tassel from the man’s armor. The visage of an impaled dragon floated to the ground.

Jaanti laughed. “Are you finally awake now, Isle Knight? Good. I’ll quit being so gentle.” The Dhargot came at him, using both his blade and the quillons of his sword hilt to rain blow after blow on Rowen’s armored chest, legs, and shoulders, faster than he could counter.

Rowen gave ground, sweat in his eyes. Still wheezing for breath, he wondered if the Dhargot ever meant to stop. He flushed, thinking he was about to die with Jalist and Igrid watching.

His back struck something solid. The temple. Jaanti had driven him all the way back to the temple! Rowen ducked. Jaanti’s blade sparked off the temple walls. Rowen rolled free. He came up fast, Knightswrath held before him, but Jaanti did not charge.

The Dhargot leaned on his sword. Only a slight sheen of perspiration on a bit of exposed throat gave any indication of his weariness. “Catch your air, Knight. We both know I could finish you now, but to be honest, I’m enjoying this.”

Rowen’s lungs ached for another moment’s rest, but he hefted Knightswrath and charged anyway. Jaanti parried one swing, took a second off his spaulders, and countered with a blow that nearly drove Knightswrath out of Rowen’s grasp. Before Rowen could recover, Jaanti drove an armored knee into his cuirass, followed by a hard shove that spilled Rowen onto the ground.

Rowen saw stars just beginning to shine through the blue-black haze of twilight. He thought he heard Snowdark whinny then Jalist shout and Igrid curse, but those sounds seemed miles away.

Then a dark figure blotted out the stars. “Do you yield, Isle Knight? You’d make a fine addition to the Bloody Prince’s harem. Can you dance or juggle? Can you sing?”

Rowen remembered where he was. He tensed his fingers. He tried to flex them around Knightswrath’s dragonbone hilt and realized the sword was no longer in his grasp. He looked up. Jaanti had it. The Dhargot slung his own broadsword over his shoulder like a woodsman’s axe and held Knightswrath with his other hand, prodding Rowen with the adamune’s
curved tapered point.

Rowen looked past him and saw Jalist. The Dwarr’s face was blanched. Both he and Igrid were still holding their bows, but the other Dhargots had circled the cart and loomed over them, crossbows at the ready.

“Should I repeat my offer or cleave your skull on the temple lawn?”

Rowen answered by rolling closer, right up against the Dhargot’s legs. He wrapped one arm around the man’s knees then rolled the opposite direction, pulling the Dhargot down on top of him. Rowen had the pleasure of hearing the man curse.

They grappled. In such close combat, swords were no use; Rowen had already thrown two elbows into Jaanti’s face before the Dhargot realized that. Jaanti released his grips on both swords and answered with a punch of his own. Rowen reeled. Then he saw Knightswrath lying on the ground. He reached. Before he could grab it, Jaanti kicked him in the chest. Rowen staggered.

Jaanti was on his feet. The Dhargot had lost his half helm, and blood streamed from his broken nose. He laughed nonetheless. He made no effort to wipe away the blood. “Is this what you meant by splitting me crotch to throat? Well, at least you made some small reckoning for yourself.” Jaanti bent and retrieved his broadsword, kicking Knightswrath out of reach.

Rowen went for his dagger, realized he’d given it to Igrid, and searched frantically for anything he might use as a weapon. He saw nothing. He risked a quick glance at Jalist and Igrid, hoping one of them might throw him a blade, but Jaanti’s men had already moved to block the way.

Rowen heard the sound of a crying infant and faced the temple again. He was only a few yards from the temple doors. The doors were still closed, but he could see the villagers watching through the windows, which were simply gaps in the adobe. Some of the people held blades. He wondered if they would come to his aid.

What am I to them?
Then he asked himself a new question:
What are they to me?
He realized Igrid was right. They should have simply taken up position on the temple roof, hidden until the Dhargots got close, and rained arrows on them. As Jaanti circled him, clearly taking his time, Rowen remembered something his brother used to say:
Better to live with guilt than die without it.

Jaanti stopped. He tipped his head, as though listening for something. Rowen heard it, too: the sound of footfalls coming from the western edge of the village. For one wild moment, Rowen thought Captain Reygo and a company of Noshan guards were hurrying to his aid. Then he noted Jaanti’s smile.

Ragged, filthy figures emerged from the shadows. A few wore furs. Most were naked. Each one appeared gaunt and half starved. He saw women as well as men, though all looked more like animals than people, from their long nails to their sickly yellow eyes. “Lochurites…”

Rowen did not even realize he’d voiced the thought until Jaanti shrugged. “Odd times call for odd alliances.” He faced the berserkers. “About time you caught up.”

The Lochurites swaggered into the moonlight, their eyes wide, as though they were incapable of blinking. Rowen saw a fearful listlessness in the Lochurites’ movements. He realized they were all probably drugged by whatever poison they ingested, supposedly to become immune to fear and pain. He counted at least a dozen appearing from the shadows.

Rowen heard screams from within the temple. Jaanti snapped his fingers. A tall, hairless, sickly-thin man with two bronze hatchets separated from the rest of the Lochurites. He approached Jaanti as a hungry dog might and half knelt, growling and muttering incomprehensibly.

Jaanti pointed at the temple. “People. Inside. Kill. Understand?”

The Lochurites’ leader nodded his shaggy head. He gestured to the hissing, muttering shadows behind him. They started toward the temple.

Rowen cried, “Wait, we had a deal—”

“What deal? Neither of us said shit about the villagers. And don’t offer me your life for these others, because I already have it.” The Dhargot started toward him again, broadsword glinting. “Be a good loser and give me your throat.”

Rowen backed away.
Everyone’s about to die because of me.
He knelt. His fingers fought the straps to one of his greaves. He hardly realized what he was doing.

Jaanti frowned but did not slow. Rowen finished unbuckling his greave and rose, just as Jaanti was swinging. Rowen gripped the armor plate with both hands and swung, too, batting Jaanti’s sword out of the way. Then he leapt forward and stabbed the edge of the greave into Jaanti’s chin.

Jaanti jerked. Rowen gripped the bit of armor with both hands and drove its blunt edge into Jaanti’s throat—once, twice, three times. Jaanti’s eyes widened then glazed over. Blood gurgled from his mouth. His broadsword wavered. Rowen raised the greave over his head and smashed it down. Jaanti crumpled. Rowen knelt, snatched up the dead man’s sword, and turned.

Still seated on horseback beside the cart, twenty feet away, the other Dhargots gaped at him. Then they remembered their crossbows. One shot at him, but the bolt glanced off Rowen’s spaulders. The others turned toward Jalist and Igrid. One jerked as Igrid’s arrow caught him in the thigh, between his armor plates. Jalist fired half a heartbeat later. His arrow struck the wounded Dhargot’s bloodmare. The beast reared, tossing its rider to the ground.

The third Dhargot aimed his crossbow for Igrid, but the former Iron Sister ducked, rolled beneath the Dhargot’s horse, stabbed, then came up as this animal reared, too.

Jalist had taken up his long axe. He grunted and cleaved one Dhargot’s head from his shoulders then swung and shattered the sword of another. The second man reached for another weapon but stiffened as Igrid drove a dagger into the back of his neck.

Only one Dhargot remained. He tried for a moment to span his crossbow and fire again, but upon seeing that all his companions were dead, he gave up. He wheeled his bloodmare to flee. But Igrid screamed in defiance and scooped up a fallen shortbow.

Rowen sprinted toward the temple. The Lochurites had already forced open the temple doors, and some had pushed inside. Screams of panic and battle told him that the villagers with weapons were trying to fight off the Lochurites, despite being outnumbered. Those Lochurites still outside shoved toward the temple doors. They did not see him coming.

Rowen thrust Jaanti’s broadsword between the shoulder blades of the nearest Lochurite, gave the blade a twist, then dragged it free. Another Lochurite pounced at him. Her yellow eyes roiled with rage and madness. She slashed at his face with a bronze knife, but Rowen cut her down. She fell with just a look of mild surprise.

Knightswrath lay in the grass, just a few yards away. Another Lochurite stood in the way. Rowen barreled past and let Jaanti’s sword fall atop the corpse. He snatched up Knightswrath and turned just in time to slash another Lochurite who was hurtling toward him. The mad warrior hardly slowed. A bronze shortsword wobbled toward Rowen’s face. He sidestepped, turned, and cut off the man’s head. Then he ran for the temple door.

He smelled blood as soon as he got inside. Beside overturned stools and braziers, hot coals pulsed in the darkness. The old cleric lay dead on the floor, along with a few men who must have been hunters. Villagers fleeing toward the rear of the temple overturned an altar that was little more than a table heaped with carved wooden stars. Mothers were trying to wedge their children through the temple windows. A few men were trying to fight off the Lochurites. Those without weapons had armed themselves with candelabras or wooden stools.

Rowen counted eight berserkers. He knew he should wait for Jalist and Igrid. Instead, he howled and charged. Chaos surrounded him. Ragged men and women fought, their foul breath seeming to mingle with the shadows around them. Bronze weapons hacked at him. He answered with steel, sometimes parrying a blow with his vambraces, bashing foes with his armor. He howled, too—the dreadful sound echoed in the cramped temple. He slashed and slashed. He did not stop until his sword passed thrice through empty air. Then he stopped and stared.

All the Lochurites were dead. One, less drugged than the rest, had attempted to flee. Jalist wrenched his long axe from the fallen man’s body. The Dwarr’s eyes widened. “Dear gods, Locke!”