Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (18 page)

The girl did not move. “I didn’t mean to stare at you with no clothes on. I’s just going to pick berries when I saw you. Haven’t seen anybody else here for ages, years probably.” She hesitated. “You’re prettier than Ma.”

Igrid frowned. She wondered if the girl was feebleminded. She sheathed the sword but kept it close at hand. Then she dried off with her cloak and dressed. The girl’s eyes did not leave her. Igrid was accustomed to being stared at—she even used it to her advantage whenever possible—but the girl’s stare made her uncomfortable.

“Your clothes are wrong for you,” the girl said finally. She tugged at her own clothes, as though Igrid simply did not know what the word meant. “They’re too big. I got clothes you could have. They’s Ma’s, but she won’t mind ’cause she’s with the gods.”

Igrid knew she could use a different outfit, but the girl made her uncomfortable. “I don’t want your dead mother’s clothes, child. Now run along.” Igrid tugged on her boots, wincing as she did so. The girl was right. The boots were too big for her, too, and had shifted oddly as she walked, blistering her feet.

“We gots spare boots. You can have thems, too!”

Igrid considered shoving past the girl and heading on her way, but she eyed the girl’s empty basket. “Are you from a village nearby?”

The girl cocked her head, confused.

Igrid sighed and tried again. “Who do you live with?”

“My Da. That’s it. Nobody else this far south. Or north, I guess, if you’s lived in the south.” She paused. “I had a little brother, but he died coming out of Ma. That made her die, too.”

Igrid doubted such wretched people had anything worth stealing. Still, if there was a house nearby, that might prove a better shelter than the grove of fruit trees. She gave the girl her best charming smile. “Do you think your father would shelter me for the night if you asked?”

“Ain’t sheltered nobody for years. No travelers here. Closest village a ways north, but they don’t come down here. Plus the roof leaks when it rains. But it likely won’t rain tonight. You should stay. But I gots to fill my basket first, or he’ll beat me awful.” The girl headed for the orchard without awaiting a reply.

Igrid bit back a curse and followed her.

Chapter Sixteen

Brahasti’s Plan

B
rahasti el Tarq reined in his horse and smiled. The scouts had been right. The citizens of Cassica—conquered only months ago by the Throng, only to have their conscripts returned when the Throng was disbanded—had learned from its mistakes. It was said that Cassica had been a mighty stronghold in ages past, rivaling even Lyos and Syros. But its defenses had fallen into disrepair over the years, especially after Fadarah’s legions swept in.

Since then, the people of Cassica had repaired the gates that the Nightmare had smashed, along with all the damaged sections of the wall. They had even reinforced the gates with a heavy iron portcullis. A steep mound of earth surrounded the city, making it more difficult for an enemy to tunnel beneath the walls or approach them with siege towers. Furthermore, the Cassicans had built wooden platforms draped with shields and animal hides that extended from the battlements, emboldened with arrow-slits. Thanks to the additional fortifications, no attacker could approach Cassica’s walls without coming under heavy crossbow fire from all sides.

And that has the Bloody Prince worried—though he’d never say so.

Brahasti lifted his gaze over the distant city’s battlements and saw that Cassica had its own engines of war: catapults, ballistae, trebuchets, and steaming cauldrons likely already filled with boiling water—maybe even boiling piss—ready to be up-ended on the heads of attackers. He turned to face the roiling legions behind him.

The Bloody Prince rode ahead of his cavalry and gave him a scathing look. Brahasti had deliberately ridden ahead of the Bloody Prince as they neared the city, in full view of the rest of the Dhargothi legions, usurping Karhaati’s place of honor. Brahasti had been exiled from the empire for years, but not so long that he failed to recognize the insult he had just dealt. Surely that insult was made worse by the fact that Brahasti looked nothing like a Dhargothi warrior.

In place of armor, Brahasti wore silk robes sewn not with the sigil of the dragon impaled on a spear but the crimson greatwolf. Unlike other Dhargots, who shaved their heads and grew braided goatees, he was clean shaven with a full head of dark hair. He was not even wearing a sword.

Brahasti knew that the Bloody Prince wanted to kill him, but the prince did not yet have the courage to disobey Fadarah’s orders. Still, Fadarah’s commands did not prohibit Karhaati from angling his armored destrier frightfully close to Brahasti’s horse, leaning, and backhanding him with one mailed hand. Brahasti accepted the blow, spat blood, and concealed a grin. He knew he’d made his point.

The Bloody Prince removed his half-helm, an extravagant thing of steel and brass crowned with the visage of an impaled dragon, and scowled at the city. Even as the Dhargothi legions unfurled before the city, Cassica’s gates and portcullis slammed shut. Dark figures manned the battlements, crowned in glinting half-helms of their own.

Brahasti considered the reports they had received from spies: Cassica had a thousand defenders, less than one-twentieth of the force he commanded. But well-provisioned, well-fortified cities had been known to last for months against equally dismal odds.

Karhaati said, “Fadarah should have lent us magic. I want to be washing my sword in the blood of Noshans or Islemen, not overseeing some tedious siege!”

“May I remind you, Sire, that Ivairia is directly north of us. You may not wish to show the Ivairians your backside for that long.”

The Bloody Prince glowered at him. “I fear the Ivairians even less than I fear you. Every report says they’re holed up in their keeps, frightened and hungry.”

“Every report but the last one.”

Karhaati shrugged. “Fifty lancers, maybe another fifty squires. A scouting force, nothing more. The Ivairians are too sickly and scared to care what happens—”

“On their own border?” Brahasti laughed. “They might have minded their own business when it was the Throng razing their neighbors to the south, but your army consists of flesh and blood, not magic and Nightmares. If they think they’ll have to cross swords with a Dhargothi host sooner or later, they might decide to do it while your back is turned.”

Karhaati scowled. “Fadarah never said we would have to fight the Lancers.”

“Why should he? You battle his rivals in the northlands while he deals with his own in the west. Do you think he cares whether you lose ten men or ten thousand?”

The rage melted from Karhaati’s eyes. “But he needs my help to take the Wytchforest—”

“So he does. But he doesn’t want you so strong that he can’t keep you under his boot.”

Karhaati grunted his agreement. Nevertheless, he eyed Brahasti with mistrust. “Am I to believe that
you
care how many Dhargots die in the name of the empire?”

“Fadarah makes enemies the way your elephants’ shit draws flies. Should he one day end up dead, I would avail myself to the great man left standing.”

Karhaati turned, scrutinizing the deployment of the aforementioned war elephants that were, in fact, leaving a trail of shit and flies behind them. “If you aim for my friendship and loyalty, Earless One, you’re an archer in dire need of practice.”

“I aim for neither. I’ll settle for grudging appreciation for my talents.”

“So far, the only talents you’ve displayed involve drinking my wine and raping my slaves.”

Brahasti smiled. “Then I shall prove myself right now. This is what you should do. And instead of ordering the men myself, I’ll let you do it and claim credit.” He paused. “Send three hundred men to ride down the Ivairians. Tell them to take prisoners, drag them north, strip them naked, and leave them impaled on the Ivairian frontier. The Ivairians know a warning when they see it.”

Karhaati stroked his goatee idly. “A warning… or a challenge?”

Brahasti gestured to the massive host behind them. “You have over twenty thousand swords here! Your brothers have thousands more, just a few days behind us.”

Karhaati bristled at the mention of brothers, whom he, in true Dhargothi fashion, viewed as competitors. “We still have this city to contend with. My elephants and chariots won’t be much use against those walls. We could sling battering rams between the elephants, but—”

“Even their armor won’t protect them from ballistae. Besides, elephants panic at the sight of fire.”

Karhaati’s painted eyes narrowed. “Then what does Fadarah’s lapdog suggest?”

A great orchard growing against one of Cassica’s walls drew Brahasti’s attention. The boughs were thick with songbirds. From his vantage point, he could see over the walls, to a sea of wooden rooftops. Many more songbirds had roosted within the city. He imagined the Cassicans found the birds quaint, charming even, though to Brahasti’s ears, the beasts sounded hungry.

“Dear prince,” he said with deliberate slowness, “I suggest you prepare slave pens. And a tent full of wine and whores for me. Cassica will be yours by nightfall. But first, I need raw meat and fifty men with nets.”

Karhaati frowned. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, Earless One. I don’t know what you’re planning, but choose your men and be on with it.”

Brahasti moved quickly, filled with dreadful excitement. He chose his men, pointed at the orchard, and issued his orders. Then he turned to another man. “Fetch twigs, small ones, and string. Then prepare a fire.”

By sundown, half the rooftops of Cassica were ablaze. Brahasti’s men were still tying burning twigs soaked in pitch to the feet of the songbirds they had caught. Once released, the frantic, burning creatures screeched up into the sky. They arced over the walls then either shuddered from the impact of crossbow bolts or succumbed to the flames and plummeted onto the wooden rooftops.

While the city’s frantic defenders were busy battling fires and trying to shoot birds from the sky, Karhaati’s siege engines rolled forward, battering the gates and flinging even more fire over the battlements. Within two hours, it was over. A horn sounded, signaling Cassica’s surrender. The gates of Cassica swung open. Brahasti watched. Beside him, Karhaati shook his head. For the moment, grudging admiration had replaced the Bloody Prince’s loathing. “I misjudged you, General…”

Brahasti said, “The city is yours. I trust you’ve already filled my tent with the appropriate awards?” He waited for Karhaati to nod then turned his horse and rode off.

Chapter Seventeen

The First Lancer

I
grid reluctantly followed the girl to the orchard, helped her fill the basket with fruit, then volunteered to carry it back to the farmhouse. When she asked the girl’s name, the girl did not answer, so Igrid asked again. After two more attempts, Igrid began to wonder if the girl’s parents had ever even bothered to name her.

Igrid’s pulse quickened. She began to suspect what she would find at the farmhouse. She wished she weren’t carrying the basket so she could loosen her sword.

Twilight darkened the road before her. Igrid felt her unease grow with each step. The girl seemed eager to ask her questions about her travels—what she did and what realms she had seen—but she clearly lacked the vocabulary to phrase her questions. Igrid strained to understand her and to keep from losing her temper. She reminded herself that a night’s shelter from the wilderness was well worth the sacrifice.

Gods, the girl stinks, though!
Igrid considered setting down the basket and tossing the girl in the stream, pretending it was some kind of game, but the girl hinted that her father was waiting and would be angry if she did not return home as quickly as possible.

When they reached the girl’s home, Igrid stopped in her tracks. It was a small, simple dung hut with one uneven hole where a window should have been. The patches of dead grass that served as a yard were scattered with the bones of dead animals, probably the rabbits, urusks, and wild dogs they’d turned into suppers. A turnip garden was nearby, shabby and ill tended, but no privy. Flies and a putrid smell hung over the place like a funeral pall.

“You…
live
here?”

Before the girl could reply, her father appeared in the doorway. He was a small man, but the dung hut wasn’t much taller than he was, so he had to stoop to exit and glare at her. When he saw that his daughter was not alone, he leaned back into the dung hut and withdrew a rusty hatchet. Igrid could not understand the curse he spat at his daughter. The girl took the basket from Igrid, gave her a warning look, and hurried inside. Igrid bristled when the man patted the girl’s rump as she passed. Then the father turned to face Igrid.

One of the man’s eyes was a sickly milk-white color, but the suspicion in his good eye was obvious. Forcing herself to smile, she opened her cloak. The man’s suspicion give way to arousal once he’d studied her more closely. Though Igrid was no longer sure she even wanted to stay in the hut, she concealed her revulsion and smiled again.

“Good evening. I met your daughter by the stream. She said I might have your hospitality for the night.”

The man either did not understand or was too preoccupied by staring at her bosom and wet, clingy clothes. She fought the impulse to close her cloak. She repeated herself, simplifying her phrasing. “Can I stay the night?”

The man scratched an unkempt beard. “You want to stay
here
?”

No.
But Igrid realized, unexpectedly, that she did not have the heart to leave the girl. “Just for the night. I can pay you in the morning,” she lied, but she intended to be gone before he woke.

The man was silent for a moment, wobbling a little as he stood there. She wondered if he was drunk. She had known many simplefolk to make their own wine out of fruits, usually putrid stuff that could be poisonous but succeeded at least in numbing the dreariness of their station. The man’s lips cracked into a toothless grin, and she guessed what was coming next.

“You want to stay the night, you lay with me.”

Igrid could not suppress a shudder of revulsion. She was glad her hands were free, though she managed with great restraint to keep from drawing her sword and cleaving the vile man’s head in two. Instead, she crossed her arms and shook her head firmly. “No.”

The man spat on the ground and brandished the hatchet. “Then go.”

The girl appeared again. She squeezed her father’s arm and whispered something in his ear, casting Igrid a sidelong glance. The man relaxed, and the hatchet came down. He pushed his daughter back inside the hut and gestured for Igrid to follow.

Igrid took a step backward, then the girl’s face peeked out of the hut. The child’s imploring gaze was so desperately lonely that tears sprang to Igrid’s eyes.

Maybe the girl doesn’t want to stay here. She can’t. Maybe I should kill the bastard and take the girl to some temple in Lyos.
She flexed her fingers on the dragonbone hilt of Rowen’s sword. She wondered what the Isle Knight would do in her place.

The man stared at her. She turned her back on him and started walking. She listened carefully, in case he charged her. When she heard a heavy rumbling sound, she spun and drew her sword, but the man was still standing in the doorway. He looked as confused as she felt. She listened.

Horses…
She thought for one fearful moment that Rowen had caught up with her. But no, the hooves sounded more like an army. She turned west, in the direction of the sound, but trees blocked her view. She hurried forward to get a better look. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man and his daughter join her, but she paid them no mind. “Gods…”

At least a hundred riders thundered across the grasslands. The first half of them wore full armor. Some wore bright, colorful tabards over their armor. They were unmistakably knights, but not Isle Knights. They looked nothing like Rowen. Their armor was heavier, and each armored man carried a long wooden lance tipped in steel, a bright pennant tied at the end. Squires dressed in brigandines and armed with shortswords worked to keep pace with the knights. Most hauled two or three more lances under one arm.

Igrid squinted, trying to discern a sigil in the waning light. She saw a profile of a rearing horse topped with a crown. She almost could not believe her eyes.
What are Ivairians doing this far south?
They were obviously in a hurry. The hooves of their horses kicked up a fierce cloud of dirt and grass as they tore across the plains. In the Lancers’ wake, a second column rode in breakneck pursuit. These men wore the distinctive scale armor and black silk of Dhargothi warriors. She even thought she spotted a force of chariots some distance behind the riders. She could not see them very well through the chaos, but she imagined the horse-drawn carts were crowded with archers and spearmen.

This is going to be bloody
. The Lancers and squires were outnumbered. Even slowed down by their weighty armor, they might outrun the Dhargothi chariots—especially if they sacrificed their heavily laden squires as a rearguard—but they would not escape the cavalry nipping at their heels. The Lancers seemed to sense that.

The column abruptly whirled about. Lancers and squires expertly regrouped into one fierce knot of muscle, leather, and steel then thundered down on the advancing Dhargothi cavalry. Igrid felt the pregnant girl draw close to her. Unthinking, Igrid found her hand and squeezed it.

Both winced as the Lancers and the Dhargots met in a head-on collision of wood and steel. Horses screamed. Lances splintered. Men fell on both sides, cleaved and bloody, dark flailing shapes in the twilight. But even outnumbered, the main force of Lancers drove clear through the Dhargots’ center. Meanwhile, the squires closed in with shortswords drawn, hacking at wounded Dhargots or dismounting and stabbing them while they were still dazed. Others utilized the extra lances they were carrying for their lords, driving them through scale armor and flesh.

Igrid resisted the impulse to run out and join them. Meanwhile, rather than wheel about and clash once more with the Dhargothi cavalry, the Lancers tightened ranks and continued their charge against the chariots. Igrid realized their mistake at once. Had the Lancers pressed their assault against the Dhargothi horsemen, the archers in the oncoming chariots would have been hard-pressed to find a clear target in the swirling chaos. But as a single group, the Lancers were easy targets. A few were still couching lances, but most relied on swords and shields.

Igrid heard the snap of bows over the din of battle. She winced again, expecting to see the Ivairians cut to ribbons. To her surprise, though, the Lancers’ heavy plate armor protected them from most of the arrows. A few fell, but most hurtled on, shouting, and crashed into the line of chariots before the latter could steer clear.

The pregnant girl covered her eyes, even as her father stared through the trees, grinning wildly. Igrid watched anxiously.

The Ivairian squires were in trouble. The Dhargothi cavalry had regrouped in force and was having little trouble cutting down the lightly armored boys assailing them. Moments later, the squires attempted to flee, some on horseback, others on foot.

Three Ivairian squires, all on foot, raced in the direction of the hut. Even in the thin light of dusk, Igrid could make out the terror on their faces. She counted five Dhargots on horseback bearing down on them. Two of the squires threw away their swords, perhaps thinking that would dissuade their pursuers, but the Dhargots continued on.

Igrid gauged the distance—the squires would be dead long before they reached the shelter of trees. That meant the Dhargots would not see Igrid, the girl, and her father watching. “Look away,” she told the girl, who was still clinging to her.

Then she heard a new rallying cry. Most of the Lancers were still clashing with the Dhargothi charioteers, but a handful had regrouped and were rushing to aid their embattled squires. One rode ahead of the rest to intercept the Dhargots pursuing the three squires. He had a fresh lance under one arm, though she had no idea how he’d gotten it. Unlike the other Lancers, his armor was finely enameled. She suspected he was their leader. He shouted, challenging the Dhargots to face him.

The Dhargots reined in. If they pressed on and slew the three squires, the knight charging from behind would have the advantage. They could turn and kill the madman first then slay the rest.

The Lancer never slowed. The Dhargots had barely turned before the Lancer angled his horse to the Dhargots’ right flank, urging even more speed from his mount. The Dhargots tried to angle around his lance, but he swept it in a carefully controlled arc and drove it clean through a Dhargot’s chest. The lance splintered. He let it go and drew his sword.

Steel flashed, flushed with blood. The Lancer blurred by, gracefully cleaving another Dhargot from the saddle as though the latter were standing still. Then the Lancer turned, swinging wide. Igrid thought he was leading them back to the rest of the battle. Instead, the Lancer wheeled so sharply that he nearly collided with his pursuers.

As Igrid lost sight of the man, another chorus of screams and clashing steel rang out, seemingly just as furious as the larger battle. The fleeing squires, meanwhile, raced back to help the embattled knight who had saved them.

Igrid’s hand strayed to Knightswrath’s hilt.
No, this isn’t my fight
. She thought for certain that the lone Lancer had been cut down, but she spotted him… on foot, hacking with his broadsword through a forest of Dhargothi horse legs. The Lancer broke free, turned back to the screaming mass of Dhargots, and resumed hacking. The three squires joined him a moment later.

Igrid turned her gaze back to the larger battle. The Lancers had reinforced their squires. The Dhargots still had superior numbers, but their thinner scale armor could not withstand the Lancers’ bastard and two-handed swords. The Lancers’ heavy armor could, however, withstand a flurry of blows, though its weight made it harder for them to maneuver. The thick, swirling chaos of the battle also made it impossible for them to withdraw and launch another devastating charge.

She glanced west. The last curve of sunlight had dipped below the horizon. It was so dark that she wondered how any of the fighting men could tell friend from foe, yet still the screams and metallic reverberations echoed across the bloody grasslands.

The father grabbed the girl’s arm. “We go.” He pulled the girl after him. They disappeared through the trees, presumably returning to their wretched hut.

Igrid stayed where she was. She knew it wasn’t safe at the hut. If a few Lancers or Dhargots broke off or fled the fighting, there was no telling what they would do. She had seen what the Dhargots had done at Hesod, and she had no reason to believe the Ivairians were much better.

She touched Knightswrath’s hilt again. She had never wielded an adamune
before, but she figured the basic principle with curved blades was the same as the basic principle of straight ones: carve up the enemy before getting carved up.

Then, in the distance, a line of shadowy figures slipped away from the battle and weaved through the trees. She was relieved when she saw the deserters follow the tree line and head north, away from the dung hut. But they changed their minds. She wondered why until she heard the pregnant girl’s voice echoing, sharp and shrill, from the dung hut. She was arguing with her father.

The others had heard it, too. Igrid cursed. She could not make out the distant figures, but she guessed by their dark silhouettes that they were Dhargots. She glanced at the battlefield. The Dhargothi charioteers had been massacred by the Lancers early in the fighting, maybe two hundred yards from where she stood. Surely, bows and spears had been left on the field.

Ducking low, Igrid crept out of her thin cover of trees and began to circle the field, giving it a wide berth. Luckily, the fighting had mostly shifted northward, away from her destination. As she drew nearer, she tried to block out the whimpers of dying men. She spotted a Dhargothi archer lying prone on the grass. Heart pounding, she dashed toward him and snatched up his bow. She tried to take his quiver, but the strap was hopelessly tangled with his body, so she grabbed a handful of arrows. Then she ran back toward the tree line.

Once she reached the trees, she glanced north. The battle raged on in the field. Eerie moonlight revealed only brief glimpses of glinting steel and desperate, struggling figures. Igrid turned toward the dung hut.

What am I doing? Why risk your life here?

Nevertheless, she nocked one arrow and slipped the rest into her crude belt. It was nearly pitch black beneath the swaying darkness of the tree limbs, but she knew she would have no trouble finding the dung hut. All she had to do was follow the screams.

She resisted the impulse to make a mad dash toward the sound. If she was going to be of any help to anyone, she would need the element of surprise. She spotted the dark outline of the dung hut just ahead. She slowed even further, crouching low, and tested the draw of her bow.

She felt morbidly relieved when she saw that the men were raping the girl on the ground outside the dung hut, rather than inside. That meant they were easier targets. She leaned against a tree and lifted her bow. She took a moment to study her targets.