Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (21 page)

Rowen hesitated. He had not been under any delusions that he could gain an audience with the Sylvan king without first telling some lower-ranking Sylv the purpose of his arrival, but he had hoped at least to save his words for some kind of chieftain or general. He suspected that Briel was merely a junior officer.

He steeled himself again. “This is Fel-Nâya, also called Knightswrath, the sword entrusted to King Fâyu Jinn during the Shattering War.” He tilted the blade so the gilded lettering carved into the swirling steel glinted. “On behalf of my Order, and in the names of Fâyu Jinn and Shigella, the kings of old, I hereby invoke the Oath of Kin.” He paused. “Gather your steel, Sylvs. You are needed in the north.”

Rowen’s words hung in the heavy silence that followed them. Rowen fought back a smile. He had been mentally revising and rehearsing those words for weeks, fearing he might make a mistake, but their bold sound filled him with excitement. Rowen turned his gaze from face to face. Sylvan eyes stared back at him. He wanted to turn around and look at Silwren and Jalist, but he kept his eyes on the Sylvs.

Rowen could hear his own heartbeat. Snowdark and the other horses restlessly pawed the ground. He even thought he could hear the shifting of Sylvan armor and the creaking of longbows. But still, the Sylvs did not answer.

Rowen fixed his gaze on Briel. He waited in unbearable silence. Then, off to the side, someone laughed. Another joined in, then another. Before long, nearly all the Sylvs were laughing. Rowen flushed.

Briel grimaced as though he had just been conversing with a lunatic and feared that the madness might infect him, as well. He stepped back. Then he pointed with his shortsword. “Kill them.”

And before Rowen could move or speak, the air shuddered with the snap of longbows.

Chapter Twenty-One

Anza

“A
nza,” Igrid said.

The girl stared, uncomprehending.

“Your name is Anza. You have a name now. Do you understand?”

Igrid peeled off the girl’s bloody clothes and led her into the stream. Though Igrid wanted to get as far away from there as possible, in case the battle between the Dhargots and the Lancers shifted south again, Anza was covered in her father’s blood.

Igrid cursed as cold water soaked her britches. She palmed water over the girl’s body, washing her like an infant. The girl grabbed Igrid’s shoulders with wet, grubby hands and leaned on her, but she did not speak.

“Can you hear me? Gods, girl, say something!”

Anza moved one hand from Igrid’s shoulder to her own belly. Her voice was barely a whisper in the night. “One of them hit me here. My baby…”

Igrid’s eyes widened. She pressed carefully on the girl’s belly, checking her as she’d learned to do in the brothels of Lyos. The girl winced.

“Your baby’s fine,” Igrid lied. “And so are you. Do you understand?”

The girl mumbled, “My baby,” into the darkness.

Igrid washed the girl as best she could then led her out of the stream. They both shivered in the cold night. Igrid heard the faraway sound of men screaming.

“I hope they kill each other. Dhargots, Ivairians—all of them.”

Igrid considered stopping by the dung hut so she could warm the girl and grab whatever meager possessions she had—including the clothes that the girl had promised—but the thought of going back there made her shudder. Besides, she had the coins that the Lancer had given her. She could buy whatever they needed.

She tried to lead the girl northeast, but in the dark, she tripped over an exposed tree root and nearly pulled the girl with her. Wiping her muddy palms on her britches, Igrid cursed again. She considered going back to the dung hut to look for a lantern, but she decided to keep going.

“You said there’s a village to the north. If the Lancers and the Dhargots don’t destroy it, we’ll sleep in a bed tonight. I bet you’ve never slept in a real bed your whole stinking life. But you will tonight.” Igrid forced herself to laugh. “After that, Lyos. You ever heard of it? It’s a great city north of here. There are temples there. I’ll find a nice one and leave you with some priestesses. Hells, I’ll give them so many coins, they’ll treat you like a queen!”

The girl stopped so suddenly that Igrid lurched, still holding her hand. The girl stared blankly at Igrid. Then her eyes widened. Igrid was just able to make out the girl’s expression of terror. “Who are you? Where is…”

“My name is Igrid. I’m your friend. I helped you pick fruit from the orchard. Remember? I’m taking you north, somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

The girl stared at her a moment, blinking, then turned ungracefully and ran.

Igrid stared, stunned. Surprise became anger. She decided she’d had enough. She had better things to do than act as nursemaid to some addled girl. Patting the coin purse again, she started north. Then she stopped.

“Damn.” She turned and went after the girl.

Anza had not gotten far. Igrid found her kneeling on the dark grass, her face blank, stroking her belly. Igrid approached her cautiously, but Anza hardly seemed to realize she was there. Igrid helped her up, firmly gripped her hand, and started north again.

“Where we going?” the girl asked finally.

Igrid just said, “North.”

“North. To a real bed.” Anza took a few more shuffling steps. “Can I have my baby in a bed?”

“Fine by me, though I don’t know if the innkeeper will appreciate that.” Igrid glared at the darkness before them and wished she could trade a fistful of coins for a single lit torch.

They walked until dawn and still they did not see any village. Twice, Igrid heard whimpers and cries of pain in the distance. She figured they belonged to fighting men abandoned on the field. She steered Anza away from the sounds, walking until they faded in the distance.

She tried asking Anza how far the village was or if they were even walking in the right direction, but Anza seemed to periodically forget how to speak. She held Igrid’s hand and followed her meekly, though. As tired and sore as she was, Igrid was grateful for that, at least.

When sunrise finally unrolled across the grasslands, Igrid looked in every direction. Her heart sank. She saw no village, no city, not even a stream where they could stop and drink. “Keep walking. I know you’re tired, girl, but we have to keep walking.”

Luckily, Anza seemed to have lost all will of her own. She followed Igrid, limping along until her legs gave out. She pitched forward and might have fallen facedown or belly first onto the ground had Igrid not caught her. She lowered the girl to the earth as gently as she could.

“It’s all right, Anza. It’s all right. We’ll rest a moment.” Igrid took off her cloak, covered the girl, then lay down beside her. She closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

Igrid woke to screams. She sat bolt upright, drew her sword, and looked around. Anza was gone. Igrid leapt up, turning this way and that. Panic filled her, but she spotted the girl a hundred feet away, crumpled on the grasslands.

Igrid ran to her. Anza had taken off her clothes. Then she saw why.

“It’s all right.” Igrid hugged the girl and kissed her grubby forehead. “It’s all right.”

Anza held up her hands. They were slick with blood. “My—”

“It’s all right. Just lie down. Just rest.”

But Anza convulsed. Then she screamed and pulled away, though Igrid could not tell if she was trying to escape or had been struck by a spasm of pain. She wrapped her arms around the girl and tried to hold her again, but the girl’s strength was incredible. Igrid’s arms went numb with the effort.

Then, all at once, Anza went slack. She stared up at Igrid with foggy eyes, her pupils wobbling back and forth. Igrid felt Anza’s stomach. She moved down to Anza’s thighs and forced herself to look. She winced. Though Igrid had no doubt that the baby had already died inside her, it had not come out. Anza was bleeding from the inside. Igrid knew how to help her, but she needed herbs, thread, hot water, and a sharp, clean knife. But she had none of those things. Then she remembered Knightswrath.

She’d dropped it when she knelt to inspect the girl, but she picked it up. She inspected the blade. It was too long and cumbersome for what she had to do, but at least it was sharp. “Gods, girl, this is going to hurt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She positioned herself, felt with her fingertips, and found the place where she needed to cut. She eyed it as she held the tip of the bare blade with one hand and leaned forward. The blade touched Anza’s skin. Then blade and hilt vanished. In their place, Igrid held a thick, gnarled branch.

Igrid blinked, staring at the branch. She dropped it and wept. “Damn you, wytch.” She looked up. “I’m sorry, Anza. It’s not my fault.”

The girl screamed, dug her nails into the grass, then whimpered and went still.

Cradling the girl’s head, Igrid said, “Listen, I want you to lie here. I’m going to go and take a knife from one of those dead bastards we passed. They might have something else that can help you, too. Hells, I can sew you up with thread from their tabards, if I have to.” She kissed the girl’s dirty forehead, winced at its bitter taste, and stood.

Anza turned and gave her a blank look. The girl’s mouth opened as if she were trying to form words, but Igrid backed away and ran. She wondered first where she should go, then she thought to scan the sky for crows. A dark murder of them circled to the southwest, not far from where she had heard screams during the night. Igrid broke into a sprint.

She intended to run the whole way, but it was far and she was already exhausted. Again and again, she had to stop. When she finally reached the body, she saw that it belonged to a dead horse—no sign of the rider. Igrid swore the names of every god she could remember and scouted the area. Crows scattered as she approached. She spotted a dark, unmoving shape on the plains, maybe fifty yards away.

She gathered her strength and ran again. The figure was, in fact, two men joined in a deadly embrace. One body belonged to a Dhargot with half a broken lance in his side. The other, an Ivairian knight, had a dagger of Dhargothi steel in his throat. Both men were wide eyed and staring. Another horse, alive and draped in Dhargothi vestments, lingered in the distance.

Igrid approached the horse first. She feared it would run away, but to her shock, her fingers closed around the dangling leather reins. She saw a necklace of dried ears caught on the saddle horn. She grimaced, seized it by the cord, and threw it away. She soothed the horse and pulled him back toward the bodies.

Igrid feared letting go of the reins, but the horse pawed idly at the grassy earth and did not run. She pried the dead men apart, fumbling in the bloody wreckage for a weapon. She found an Ivairian shortsword and claimed it, along with the Dhargothi knife. She used the latter to slice off the dead Lancer’s tabard, which she planned to take with her. Then she spat on them.

She mounted the Ivairian horse and urged it to a gallop. She feared that her new fortunes in finding a horse would turn again and she would be unable to retrace her steps. She spotted Anza in the distance. The girl was sitting up, her back turned. Igrid urged more speed from the horse and reined in just a few feet from the girl.

“I’m sorry, Anza. I ran as fast as I could. But we’re in luck. I found a horse. We can ride from now on. I’ll do what I can for you, but we’ll be able to ride and find a cleric who can do the rest.”

She dismounted then took the girl by the shoulders and lowered her gently onto the grass. The girl was smiling. Igrid frowned then smiled back. “You’re an odd one! Just what—”

Then she realized how pale Anza’s face had turned. Igrid felt for a pulse. She felt the girl’s belly, pressing here and there. Finally, she took the tabard she’d cut from the dead Lancer and used it to cover Anza’s face.

“Sorry, girl.” Igrid slid the knife into her homemade belt. Only then did she think of the coin purse. Cold panic flooded over her. She scanned the thick grasses and spotted the purse lying on the ground.

The coins had spilled out again. They glinted beautifully in the sun, all gold and silver. She gathered them with shaking hands. Then she caught sight of the simple length of rope that Anza had worn around her waist. Igrid undid her belt of rags and let it fall. She hesitated then unknotted the rope from Anza’s waist and tied it around her own. She turned away quickly, securing the coin purse, dagger, and shortsword. Then she mounted her new horse and set off.

She refused to look back.

Igrid found dried rations in the saddlebags of her new horse. Despite her hunger, she had to force herself to eat. As she rode north, toward Lyos, she passed more bodies. Both men and horses lay motionless in torn earth scattered with slashed standards, discarded steel, and broken lances. She passed each with her new shortsword drawn in case any of the figures were still alive, but none moved. She took in the scene, trying to imagine what had happened.

It looked as though a massive, swirling cavalry battle had been fought for miles, swinging this way and that, as the Ivairians struggled desperately to break through the Dhargothi lines. There were more dead Dhargots than Lancers, though it appeared as though the Ivairian squires had been the easiest prey.

Why were they fighting in the first place?

Igrid cut a strip of cloth from a fallen Lancer’s tabard and pressed it to her face, trying to block out some of the smell. Crows were everywhere, tearing at the dead, though they scattered at her approach, screaming and cawing into the sky. She squinted, fearing they might attack her or her horse’s eyes, and waved her sword in front of her face.

As bad as this place was, it would look and smell ten times worse in a few days. She had expected to find a few stragglers from the surviving side probing the grasslands for survivors, but she saw no one. She began to wonder if the battle had continued elsewhere. She listened but heard only crows.