Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (20 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The Tomato Prince

S
aanji spun the black opal ring on his finger as he read the letter a third time. When he finished, he scowled and held the letter over a fat tallow candle. Fire curled the parchment, sending black tendrils of smoke toward the angled silk roof of his war tent. He glanced up and realized that the messenger was still standing there, awaiting instructions.

Karhaati will want a reply.
Saanji dismissed the messenger with a wave. The messenger bowed before he left, though Saanji could read the disdain on the man’s face.

No surprise there
.
Messenger or no, judging by the number of ears hanging around his thick neck, he’s one of my brother’s ilk. The fact that he didn’t walk in and find me raping some poor, sobbing plainsgirl probably makes me half a traitor in his eyes.

Saanji was sitting before a table scattered with maps, scribbled troop statistics, and unwashed wine cups. He chose the least dirty cup and held it out. His slave, a wispy blond lad spared the rapes and fires of Quorim, filled it. Saanji had marched from Imperian with a dozen casks of fine Dhargothi wine, but Saanji detested sobriety almost as much as he detested the sight of blood, and he knew there couldn’t be more than one or two casks left. This upset him as much as his brother’s correspondence did.

The other inhabitant of his tent, the camp steward whose goatee had turned white with age, cleared his throat. “Foul news, milord?”

“I’ve never known my dear brother to send otherwise.” Saanji drained the cup, let the slave fill it again, and took another sip before continuing. “Karhaati has taken Cassica… or Brahasti took it, more likely. They’re going to stay there for the winter.”

“Then on to Lyos?”

“Maybe. My dear brother made a deal with the Shel’ai to help them take the Wytchforest, but I think he’ll saddle that duty on Ziraari. As for me, I’ve been ordered to join Karhaati at Cassica and help him keep the city in line.”

The steward’s jaw dropped. “We are… to go to Cassica?”

Saanji snorted with laughter then regretted it when he got wine in his nose. “Don’t look so glum! Perhaps my brother has had a change of heart. Perhaps the gods visited him in a dream and convinced him to abandon all the barbaric rituals that have corrupted our people.” He paused. “No, you’re probably right. He’s going to kill me.”

“Then… why go, milord?”

“Everybody has to go somewhere.” Saanji drained his second cup and was halfway through his third when he remembered they had been discussing something before the messenger arrived. “By the Dragongod, what were we talking about?”

“Foraging,” the steward said. Though he had been standing the whole time, he showed no signs of weariness.

Saanji looked down at his round belly. His silk britches smelled faintly of urine and stale wine. “Ah, yes. Foraging. What of it?” He hiccupped.

“It is proving most ineffective. Your brothers’ hosts burned much of the forests and croplands as they marched from Dhargoth, and from what I hear, these lands didn’t grow much but turnips and bastards, anyway.”

Saanji laughed. Though he liked the steward, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the man’s name. “Are our stores exhausted already?”

“As I explained, Sire, we remain heavily supplied. But at Prince Karhaati’s request, we have been reserving the bulk of our foodstuffs to resupply the fighting men to the east.”

But not the wine
.
Karhaati and Ziraari can have the salted beef. They can have the vegetable gruel. They can have horses to ride and girls to rape—or the other way around, for all I care. But by Zet’s steaming corpse, they won’t get my wine!

To prove his point, he drained his cup and held it out again. The slave flushed. The pitcher was almost empty, and the servant poured what remained into Saanji’s cup. He whispered feverish apologies before rushing off to find more.

He apologizes like he thinks I’ll flay him just for giving me what I want. Then again, what was it that my dear father used to say about randomly violating a slave from time to time, just to keep the rest in line?

Saanji shrugged. The sadistic advice of the Red Emperor did not interest him, especially so far from Dhargoth. He looked up and realized the steward was still there.

The man cleared his throat. “Foraging, milord. Your orders?”

“Oh.” Saanji hiccupped again. “What do you suggest?”

“There are some untouched towns to the south. We could raid them easily enough.”

Saanji nodded. “Take what they have. Kill all the males, take the boys as slaves, but notch their ears. Rape the women and girls, and hang the corpses from trees before we go. Oh, and have anyone who opposes us impaled for a slow, agonizing death. That’s the Way of Ears, yes?”

“As you say, milord.”

Saanji stared at the steward, trying to tell if the man was serious, but there suddenly seemed to be three of him. Saanji was not sure he liked this man anymore. He waved his hand. “Fine. Do it. Send Captain… Captain…” He swore. “Send whoever you feel like. Send the whole bloody host for all I care.” He tried to remember how many men he had.
Five thousand?
More than enough to raze a countryside in usual circumstances, but his host was as different from those commanded by his brothers as night from day. While it was customary for deserters to be strangled or impaled as an example to the other fighting men, rich households often frowned upon their beloved sons being executed for cowardice or timidity, even if the accusations were true. Those men had been given to Saanji, ignobly tasked with guarding baggage carts and burying the dead.

Saanji the Soft. The Tomato Prince. Cock o’Wine.
He smirked, mentally reciting the long litany of nicknames his brothers had given him. They would be surprised when they found out he’d actually gotten his halfhearted men to bloody their steel and dampen their cocks off innocent, crying shepherd girls.

My father will be pleased.
He tried to drink from his cup and found it empty. He cursed. At that moment, the slave returned with a full pitcher, sloshing some of the wine as he moved. As the slave filled the cup, his hands shaking, he spilled a few red drops on Saanji’s robes. Saanji might have struck him or had him flayed, but he had more important matters to attend to. He gulped down the cup and had it refilled.

Then he turned, thinking the steward had left, but found the aged Dhargot still standing there. He had been talking—probably asking and repeating a question. Saanji blinked. “What?”

“The
other
matter, milord.”

“What other matter?” Saanji remembered the message that had arrived only two days earlier, also from his brother, conveying a report from midland spies that their cousin had disappeared. “Ah, yes. Sweet Karhaati wants me to send torturers to pluck the toenails of some Noshan villagers and see if they know what became of our gentle cousin, Jaanti.”

The steward nodded patiently, though he clearly already knew all that.

“It seems Jaanti was chasing a red-headed whore and an Isle Knight who irked him. I wouldn’t want to be in their sandals!” Saanji laughed, spilling a little wine on his robe. He looked down and frowned at the stain. “Then again, if he’s missing this long, he’s probably roasting in Fohl’s hells by now. Somehow, though, I think the world will persevere.”

“So… you do not intend to send torturers to the Noshan Valley?”

“No point. But tell Karhaati I did, if he asks.” Saanji’s head was spinning.
Too much wine. I need some food to soak it up.
He dismissed the steward and turned to his slave. “Bring my supper. Spiced duck, sweetbreads, charred bacon, and anything else you think I’d like. Be quick about it.” He glanced toward the opening of his tent and realized it was still the middle of the day. But his stomach was growling, and there was no one to chide him so far from the royal city.

He patted his stomach.
I’m the only Dhargothi prince who comes home from war fatter than when he left!
That thought made him laugh. He reminded himself to be cautious, though. His army was on strict rationing, and even those consigned to serve under the Tomato Prince might be irked by his constant feasts while they made do with vegetable mash and tepid ale. He doubted anyone in his complement had the nerve to attack him and risk drawing the ire of his brothers, though. Not yet.

Not that Karhaati and Ziraari would really give two shits if I turned up with my guts opened, but it’s an issue of pride. My death would warrant a bloody revenge. Impalements, slow roasting, et cetera.
He hiccupped before he could swallow, spilling wine down his goatee. He mopped his face with the sleeve of his robes.

I could throw a feast for the men. Give them some slave girls to violate. Let them wager on wild dogs fighting over bones. Isn’t that how you make fighting men love you?

Of course, that was impossible. His brothers did not want to be slowed with baggage trains, so they’d left the bulk of their supplies with him, squatting on the plains south of Cassica. If Saanji squandered foodstuffs meant for the
real
fighting men of the empire, his father would hear of it. But what choice did he have?

“Raiding…” He thought of his steward. He’d said something about villages. Saanji tried to remember. When it came back to him, he cursed. Then he shouted until the slave boy appeared.

“Begging your pardon, milord. We’re fixing your supper now, but it’s not ready yet. Should I bring you more wine while you wait?”

Saanji glanced at the pitcher, which was still mostly full. The wine was sweet enough to draw flies. Still, he intended to drink it all before the sun went down. He smiled at the thought. Then he shook himself. “No. That’s not…” He rubbed his eyes, trying to think straight. “My steward. Get my steward back here. His name is… whatever his name is. I just have the one. Tell him I was just joking. Forget whatever I said about the villages. No killing. Tell him to break into the reserve supplies. If Karhaati doesn’t like it, the bloody bitch knows where to find me!”

He laughed. He tried to refill his own cup and spilled wine all over his table, soaking his scribbled figures and maps of conquest. “Boy, bring a towel.” Realizing the lad had already left, he cursed and sopped up the wine with his sleeve instead.

Chapter Twenty

The Oath of Kin

R
owen drew Snowdark to a stop and gazed at the towering trees in the distance. “By the Light, I had no idea…”

He realized he should have, but how could anyone be prepared for such a sight? He had heard stories about the Wytchforest, which the Sylvs and the Shel’ai referred to as Sylvos. Its trees were so tall that they scraped the clouds, and the forest held the greatest tree in all of Ruun. He had also listened to Silwren describe the World Tree that blossomed from the heart of the forest, as ancient as the world. Even though he had not quite doubted her, he had not completely believed her, either. He saw that the stories had not been exaggerated.

In the thinning mist, he saw wytchwood trees thrice the height of the tallest towers, as thick as castle keeps, wrapped in vines and leaves from top to bottom. But even the wytchwoods paled before the World Tree, incomprehensibly huge, rising into the clouds. Its massive trunk, thicker than all of Saikaido Temple, was stark white against the dark surrounding trees.

Jalist sat beside him, wide eyed, stunned silent.

Lights and gigantic platforms spiraled up the part of the World Tree’s gigantic trunk that was visible through the surrounding wytchwoods. He turned to Silwren. “Is that…?”

Silwren answered with a faint smile. “Shaffrilon, the Sylvan capital, built on daises joined to the living trunk of the World Tree.” She laughed. “What we could reach, that is. King Loslandril’s palace sits on the topmost platform, crowning the spiral walkways. That’s as high as anyone has ever climbed, and even that’s nowhere close to the top.” She pointed. “Can you see it?”

Rowen squinted but shook his head.

Silwren laughed again. “Such is the vision of Humans.”

He wondered if she was mocking him, but her smile was all kindness. He marveled that she could be so calm while so close to a homeland from which she had been exiled. But Silwren’s mood had improved greatly once Igrid was gone.

Igrid…
Rowen blushed, momentarily forgetting the awesome sight before him as he remembered once more how her bare skin felt against his, their lips and bodies joined. He ached for her in a way that angered and baffled him, but he had tried for two days to accept that he might never see her again.

He still could not understand what had compelled her to lie with him one night, only to vanish by morning. She had left her meager possessions in the camp. He thought first that she had been abducted or had wandered off and been injured, but Silwren insisted that no one could have approached the camp without her knowledge. With a twinge of heartbreak, Rowen realized that Igrid had left them—left
him
—for good.

Unless Silwren’s hiding something. But how does one tell if a Shel’ai is lying?

Especially after what he’d seen at Atheion and how simply she’d rendered them invisible to all the Dhargothi patrols when they rode past Hesod, he had to stop thinking of her as a Shel’ai. She was a Dragonkin. He shook his head. The situation was maddening. A year ago, he could barely have explained the distinctions between Sylvs and Shel’ai, let alone Shel’ai and Dragonkin. Since then, he’d learned far more than he wished to know. Still, he always seemed to have more questions than answers.

Rowen fixed his gaze on the World Tree again, hoping to rekindle that sense of wonder to squelch his sudden anxiety. But the gigantic, mist-gowned tree seemed even more surreal, like an illusion that would shatter the moment he touched it. “Well, we’ve only got about a day’s ride left. We may as well get this over with.” He flicked the reins and started forward.

Jalist said, “Are you mad? We can’t just ride in there like we’re out for an afternoon stroll. Those trees must be swarming with archers.” He turned to Silwren for confirmation.

She nodded. “Just as Shaffrilon is built into the trunk of the World Tree, many Sylvan archers make their homes in the surrounding wytchwoods. Their mission is to guard Sylvos against all intruders. Normally, that means Olgrym and Wyldkin, but we will be no more welcome than they are.”

Rowen frowned. “I’ve heard of Wyldkin, but I thought they were just Sylvs living outside the forest.”

“They are. But only the Shal’tiar can come and go as they like. The Wyldkin live on the Ash’bana Plains either by choice or because they’ve been banished for crimes. They often fight the Olgrym, alongside the Shal’tiar
.
”

“And now I suppose I have to learn who or what the Shal’tiar
are.”

Silwren opened her mouth to explain, but Rowen cut her off. “Another time. Just tell me how to get to the World Tree without getting my guts cut to ribbons by arrows.”

Silwren hesitated. “If you want to invoke the Oath of Kin, you must reach King Loslandril. But the archers in the wytchwoods will never let you pass. The Wyldkin might be sympathetic to your cause, but only the Shal’tiar
are allowed to enter and leave Sylvos at will. If you want to reach Loslandril alive, you will have to convince them to escort you in.”

Rowen rubbed his eyes. “I’ll pretend for now that I understood at least half of that. Where do we go first? The Ash’bana Plains?”

“There’s a Shal’tiar
garrison at Que’ahl, a Wyldkin village just north of the trees. We should go there first. The Wyldkin do not hate Shel’ai as much as their woodland kin. But even they will not welcome me. Best you do the talking once we arrive.”

Rowen nodded. The late El’rash’lin had magicked some of his own memories into Rowen’s mind in an effort to make Rowen understand the sorcerer’s plight. As an unexpected consequence, Rowen could slip into those memories as though they were his own and speak a smattering of the Sylvan tongue. He hoped that would be enough to impress their would-be guides into not feathering him with arrows.

Silwren touched his hand. “You’ll do fine. Remember, you are a Knight of the Crane. These people are your allies… even if they need to be reminded of that fact.”

Silwren led the way as they veered north, skirting the tree line, far out of longbow range. Rowen followed her, trying to look stoic, deliberately avoiding Jalist’s disapproving gaze. As they rode, he heard the scrape of rock on steel and realized that Jalist was sharpening his long axe.

Rowen lowered his hand and loosened Knightswrath in its worn scabbard. He decided it was a good thing the sword never needed to be sharpened. At least he wouldn’t go to his death with a dull blade.

Rowen had no idea what to expect from a Sylvan village, though his first thought was that Que’ahl appeared to be more of a fortress than a village. He saw crops and huts, but the village itself was surrounded by three wooden palisades, each built a little higher than the last and joined by guard towers crowded with lookouts and archers. He even saw a few ballistae glinting in the afternoon sun.

The village appeared to have only one gate, and that approach was scattered with a maze of trenches. Rowen immediately recognized why, and he felt a swell of admiration for whoever had fortified the place. With so many trenches and pitfalls zigzagging across the grasslands, any army seeking to assault the village would likely lose its footing. Frequent and necessary changes in direction forced them to slow their pace, making them prime targets for archers.

Rowen felt a stab of fear in his gut as scores of archers trained their arrows on him. He guided Snowdark with his heels and raised both arms to shoulder height, palms open. He hoped that Jalist and Silwren were doing the same and that Silwren had raised the hood of her cloak. He led the procession, forcing a smile that he hoped the archers could see. He saw longbows shift. Tense, steely arrowheads patiently followed his every move.

Well, they haven’t killed me yet…
They were within earshot. He started to call out in Common, but his voice had gone hoarse. He cleared his throat and started again. “We’re friends. Do not fire. I beg an audience with your commander.” He braced himself, mentally rehearsing the words, then presented the same proclamation in Sylvan.
“I’jan hatosh! N
í mirkátu.
Sivo hal’halashi.”

Even as he spoke, he realized his inflection was wrong. His Human accent must have made the words almost unintelligible to Sylvan ears. He steadied himself and repeated them, more slowly. His pronunciation was still far from perfect, but he felt a mild satisfaction when he saw the archers raise their eyebrows, Sylvan-blue eyes wide with surprise. An archer disappeared from the tower, and Rowen hoped the man had gone to fetch an officer.

Rowen lowered his hands, making sure to keep them away from his sword hilt. Fifty yards ahead of them, the gates into Que’ahl lay open, but he decided to wait until his group was invited to enter. As he sat restlessly in the saddle, he whispered over his shoulder to Silwren, “Do I even want to know how badly I messed up the pronunciation?”

“No,” Silwren whispered back. Her voice was even, and he could not tell whether she was amused, disappointed, or afraid.

Moments later, a squad of mounted fighters, all Sylvan, appeared at the gates of Que’ahl, armed with bows and blades. Some wore black brigandines while others wore plain clothes and had feathers braided into their hair. He saw women as well as men. Each fixed him in a dangerous gaze.

Rowen dismounted. Silwren and Jalist did the same. Jalist led Igrid’s horse, which carried only their supplies. Rowen eyed the approaching Sylvs, trying to pick out the leader. They all looked nearly identical, and none wore a sigil. He decided to address them in Sylvan again.
“Sivo hal’ha—”

“Spare us, Human,” one lean, stern warrior interjected, speaking near-flawless Common Tongue. He stepped ahead of the others, resting one hand on the hilt of a curved shortsword, though Rowen could not tell if the gesture was a habit or meant to be menacing. “I suspect we speak your language far better than you can speak ours, although”—the Sylv smirked—“you are the first Human I have ever heard even attempt our speech.” The Sylv looked past Rowen at Silwren, and the smirk vanished. The Sylv’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. “Perhaps you had an instructor.”

“Indeed, though not in the way you think.”

The Sylv looked at him questioningly.

“We aren’t here to fight,” Rowen said. “I need to speak with your commander at once. I am Sir Rowen Locke, a Knight of the Crane. My companions are Jalist Hewn and Silwren—”

“A Shel’ai,” the Sylv finished as Silwren offered a stiff nod.

Rowen tried to gauge the man’s tone, but like his Sylvan features, it was too foreign to him. He could not even tell if the man before him was young or old. He began to tire of formality. “And your name?”

“If you are so eager to know the name of the man who is going to kill you, so be it. My name is Briel.”

Rowen moved his hand for his sword but forced himself to smile. “I know little of Sylvan customs, it’s true. But among Humans, it’s bad luck to kill a man who comes in peace.”

The Sylv pointed at Silwren. “
They
do not come in peace! Not now, not ever. If she is your ally, then I doubt you come in peace, either. And neither do
your
kind. If it’s a parley you seek, I suggest you get to your point.”

Jalist cursed. A dozen longbows trained on them, and still more Sylvs gathered in the foreground. Beyond the gates, parents ushered their children inside, just as the Noshans had in their village. However, the Sylvan parents returned a moment later with weapons in their hands.

He wondered if he should ungird his sword belt and surrender. Instead, he steeled his nerves and slowly drew his sword, facing the Sylvan leader. The Sylvs tensed.

Rowen was glad that none lost their grip on their bowstrings. He doubted even kingsteel armor could protect him from longbow arrows at close range. “I did not come here to be threatened. If you have eyes, use them now. What am I holding?”

Briel gestured as though to delay the archers. He frowned. “I see a sword. I see an Isle Knight and a Dwarr who are far from home. And I see a Shel’ai who should have gone farther.”

“Then you are blind,” Rowen said. He took a single step forward. Sunlight caught Knightswrath’s blade as he lifted it. He gripped the sword by hilt and blade alike, praying his bold move would not be answered by a dozen Sylvan arrows. He stretched out his arms, presenting the sword to Briel.

“Are you lending me your cutlery, Human? No need. I have some of my own.” Briel drew his shortsword, holding it with loose grace that spoke of the deadly skill of its owner.