Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (24 page)

Igrid scoffed. “So you were raised in a castle, or at least a keep of some kind. You probably had servants—women like me who had to do whatever you said, or else they’d be fighting the dogs for table scraps.”

“Wolves,” Arnil corrected. “Greatwolves, especially. Since the famine, there aren’t many dogs left in Ivairia. But we have plenty of wolves.”

Igrid’s frown tightened. “Simplefolk sick and crying right outside your tower window while you ate your venison, smiled at your minstrel, and fucked your whores. And you want me to feel sorry for you?”

“Actually, I didn’t ask for pity. But I would accept some of that broth.”

She poured the contents of the pot into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. The broth was still thick and cold, but Arnil drank it without hesitation. When he returned the bowl, she filled it again and passed it back.

He nodded his thanks. “In my lands, peasants who talk like that would be flogged and stocked in the public square.”

She reached for her sword. “Threaten me again—”

He waved his hand between swallows of broth. “No threat, milady. Call it surprise.” He finished the bowl, set it on the grass, and turned his attention to the wineskin. “You talk like someone who has been wronged—and not just by my men.”

“Is that your way of asking for my story?”

He lowered the wineskin. “If you like.”

Her derision faded. She saw an earnestness in his eyes. She wondered if his curiosity was only the ploy of a man turned lustful by the sight of her bathing in the stream. She was all set to refuse him, then she changed her mind. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Arnil took another drink then handed her the wineskin. “Start anywhere. Start with a lie, if you want. Just talk.”

Igrid glanced at him. The moment seemed too much like her last encounter with Rowen, but she heard something in Arnil’s voice that she had not noticed before. Grief? Guilt? She thought again of the bodies strewn across the plains.

He just needs to listen to something other than his own thoughts.
That, at least, she understood. And before she knew what she was doing, she was talking. And even more surprising, she was telling the truth.

Once Igrid began, she could not stop. She felt a vague sense of disbelief when she saw sunset filtering through the branches of trees hours later, but still, she continued her story as Arnil listened. She spoke of being an orphan on the streets, of the brothels in Lyos, of her wish to join the Iron Sisters. She even spoke of Hesod’s bloody fall and the Iron Sisters’ slaughter, how she had turned craven when her order needed her most and fled, pretending to be a priestess. She tried to choke back her tears, but she gave in and told her tale as though she were alone, merely confessing her sins to the encroaching darkness. Much of the tale mirrored what she’d told Rowen. There was no longer a pretense, no secret agenda. She simply felt the need, finally, to speak without even the slightest lie.

She even spoke of her chance encounter with Rowen on the road to Atheion, how she had assaulted and humiliated him, only to have him save her from a fate worse than death. Arnil had been a rapt listener throughout her tale, but he seemed especially interested in the Shel’ai woman who wielded the power of a Dragonkin, for word of her exploits at the Battle of Lyos had already traveled north to Ivairia.

Igrid shared what little she understood of Fadarah’s mad conquest and Rowen’s and Silwren’s far-flung attempts to thwart him. Though she said nothing about sleeping with him, after some shamed hesitation, she spoke of how she had repaid Rowen’s mercy by trying to steal from him, only to have the illusion turned against her. She feared seeing rebuke in the Lancer’s eyes, but he merely listened.

She spoke lastly of Anza, just another nameless wretch, one of thousands throughout Ruun, though her death had affected her strangely, unexpectedly breaking something inside her. When at last Igrid fell silent, she looked around, as though waking from a daze, and realized it was dark. While she talked, Arnil had tended the fire. She found him staring at her. He had not interrupted her once.

She flinched, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know if I answered your question somewhere in all that… but if you want me to be clear, Lancer, it’s not knights and noble lords that I hate. It’s not even all the cutthroats and rapers, if you can believe it. They are what they are. No, it’s those bastards who talk of honor like it’s a real thing, then stab you in the back the moment you start to believe them. Better not to believe and rob them of their chance.” She shrugged. “It’s not a warm way to live, but at least you survive that way. Otherwise, you’d need a damn army to keep safe.”

Arnil was silent for a time. “That Isle Knight you spoke of…”

“Rowen.” Igrid blushed when she said his name.

“Had Sir Rowen been in my place, do you think he would have killed those squires for their crimes?”

Igrid was startled. “Yes,” she said finally.

Arnil nodded. “Good. That’s three of us. Find a few more, and maybe we’ll put together an army someday.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Que’ahl

R
owen stood outside the simple Wyldkin cottage that served as both guest quarters and prison, glad that he had been allowed a moment to wander. In contrast to the majesty of the forest beyond, the fortress was stark and utilitarian. Buildings were unadorned, with narrow doorways and even narrower windows. While some Sylvs walked in the streets, others crossed raised platforms joined by wooden bridges that, Rowen guessed, allowed defenders to rain arrows on any Olgrym who succeeded in breaching the fortress.

The Sylvs had taken their weapons—including Knightswrath—but so far, they had not been mistreated. After Silwren’s dire proclamation, Captain Essidel promised to keep them safe in Que’ahl while he appealed to his general for further instructions. The general, Seravin, apparently occupied a nearby fort. Essidel had ridden out at once to speak with him, promising to be back by morning. Though it was the middle of the night, the stronghold was more than adequately lit by torches and lanterns.

Rowen had hoped to speak with Silwren, but the expenditure of magic outside the gates had taxed her greatly, and she’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they were escorted to their lodgings. Finally, unable to sleep and irritated by Jalist’s snoring, Rowen stalked off. Wyldkin and Shal’tiar frowned when they saw him walking alone, but no one challenged him.

In the captain’s absence, their safety—and Que’ahl’s defense—had been entrusted to Briel. He seemed none too pleased with the duty and was even less pleased when Rowen joined him on the wooden battlements. “Where is the wytch?”

“Asleep,” Rowen said. At least, he hoped she was. He worried that her nightmares might conjure fire as easily as her hands did. “I keep thinking I understand her. Then I think I don’t.” Rowen was surprised that he’d spoken so bluntly.

“You’ll get no sympathy from me, Human. If it weren’t for Captain Essidel—”

A Wyldkin woman rushed up to the battlements and interrupted them. The two spoke in a rush. Rowen’s patchwork knowledge of the Sylvan language was not enough to tell for certain what they were discussing, but he caught a certain word spoken again and again, always with a mixture of disgust and trepidation:
Olgrym
.

He felt for his sword before he realized it was gone. He wore plain clothes, too. His armor was in the cottage. Rowen turned, about to go back for his armor, but decided to talk to Briel first, who was speaking with a cluster of officers. Rowen waited until they dispersed.

Briel gave him a cold glance. “Go back to your wytch. You’re in the way here.”

“What’s happening here?”

“Olgrym. They are moving south, hundreds strong.”

Rowen made no attempt to conceal his disbelief. Everyone knew that due to constant fighting among the Olgish clans, no single clan could boast more than fifty warriors at a time.

Briel said, “I wish I were lying, Human, but I am not. There are at least sixty clans scattered throughout Godsfall, and it seems they’ve all united under one banner.”

The thought sent a chill down Rowen’s spine. “Are they invading the Wytchforest?”

“Not yet. Most Olgrym have no grasp of strategy, but this new leader, Doomsayer, is different. He knows better than to let us attack his flanks and rear. He’ll have to wipe out the Shal’tiar
and the Wyldkin before he can make for the World Tree.” Briel turned, staring into the night. “There are six Wyldkin strongholds between here and Godsfall.”

“How many are the Olgrym attacking?”

“All of them.” Briel pointed.

Rowen squinted and saw a plume of fire on the distant, dark horizon. He detected the faint din of far-off battle. “Where is your captain?”

“Hopefully, helping General Seravin plan a counterattack. Or else he was caught behind the lines when the Olgrym advanced.”

“Have you sent men to aid him?”

“Worry about yourself, Human. If any warrior could cut his way free of that”—Briel pointed at the horizon—“it’s Captain Essidel.”

Still, a trace of fear lanced the Sylv’s voice. “Want me to wake Silwren?”

Briel’s tone hardened. “Why in the Light would I want that?”

“Because her magic makes her more dangerous than your twenty best archers. If you’re under attack, you might need her.”

“Oh, I think we’ll manage.”

“I don’t like the Olgrym any more than you do. Return my blade, and I’ll fight beside you.”

“I cannot command a garrison while worrying that you’ll betray us the moment our backs are turned.” Briel gestured to two Shal’tiar
fighters. “Take him back to his lodgings and keep him there.”

“You just said you can’t spare the men. Forget it. I’m staying.”

To Rowen’s surprise, Briel smirked. He waved back the guards. “How good are you with a bow?”

“As good as any man here,” Rowen lied.

Briel laughed. “I doubt that. But we’ll see.” He pointed at a nearby weapons rack. Some of the longbows were ornately carved and strangely curved, but Rowen selected a smooth, plain one, along with a quiver of arrows.

He tested the string. This Sylvan longbow had even greater draw weight than he was used to. He marveled that the lean Sylvs could use such heavy weapons. He figured he had the strength to draw one, but his aim would be shaky at best. Still, it was something.

Briel pointed. “Stand there. And if you so much as turn sideways with an arrow on your string, I’ll cut your throat. Are we understood?”

Rowen nodded. He took up his position and looked out over the battlements, into the night beyond. “I don’t see the Olgrym. Are you sure—”

“You will.”

Rowen felt the Sylvs scrutinizing him as he drew an arrow and fit it to his borrowed longbow. Poison glistened on the arrow’s tip, though he doubted any poison in the world could bring down an Olg. He hoped that, at the very least, the Sylvs would not notice how badly his hands were shaking.

Seems I have a knack for finding myself at the heart of sieges
. He remembered the Battle of Lyos, which he had not expected to survive. Then, though, Silwren and El’rash’lin had been at his side, not to mention a whole company of Isle Knights, the men of the Red Watch, and a militia made up of gang members and citizens of the Dark Quarter. Right then, he was surrounded by Sylvs who most likely still considered him an enemy.

He thought of laying down his bow and fetching Silwren himself. But aside from Briel’s mistrust, her display at the gates of Que’ahl had clearly drained her, drawing her perilously close to losing control and burning them all to cinders. Better they call upon her magic only as a last resort.

The Sylvs had lit beacon fires all over the plains, well beyond Que’ahl’s walls, so that the yellow-orange flicker would illuminate advancing forces. Even without the fires, though, only the deaf could have failed to hear the approach of the dark-eyed, gray-skinned giants.

They marched like madmen out of the night, row upon row, their approach heralded by guttural shouts and cruel, challenging laughter. Once in view of the stronghold, still a few hundred yards away, they spread out. They seemed to fill the whole of the darkened plains. Rowen thought of how terrified he had been when, as a mercenary, he had seen just two or three Olgrym at a time. Those few had slaughtered thrice their number in battle. He tried to count the hulking figures advancing across the Ash’bana Plains, then he gave up.

Que’ahl had nowhere near the number of defenders it needed.
Still, we’re fortified behind high walls. There are trenches and three palisades down there. We have bows. Even if our numbers are the same, we should beat them with ease.

Then the Olgrym stopped. They formed a broad phalanx just beyond longbow range. Some of the Olgrym wore crude armor or furs, but most were naked. All were gruesomely painted for war. In addition to blades, spears, and axes, many carried boulders. These they wielded with ease, often using only one arm, though Rowen guessed that it would take half a dozen Humans or Sylvs to lift even the smallest of the Olgrym’s stones. The Olgrym quieted for a moment, as though bracing themselves.

No matter
.
They’re like wild boars. A few arrows and—

The Olgrym roared in unison. The din they had made before was nothing compared to the new noise. The beasts’ voices tore across the grasslands like an avalanche. Rowen felt faint, though he took solace in the fact that many of the Sylvs—who had likely been fighting the Olgrym all their lives—betrayed signs of similar strain in their otherwise-grim expressions.

Briel’s voice somehow carried over the Olgrym’s roars. Rowen momentarily forgot he knew some of the Sylvan language, but he remembered in time to catch one word:
courage
.

Easier said than done
. He wished again that he had Knightswrath or knew at least where the Sylvs had locked it up. The familiar feel of the dragonbone hilt would be as comforting to him as the implacable sharpness of its blade would have been, especially if the Olgrym began scaling the walls and got close enough to render a longbow useless.

But they can’t scale the walls without ladders.
Rowen squinted, studying the fire-lit figures in the distance. He searched for the dark shape of ladders, or even a few Olgrym toting grappling hooks fixed with rope, but he saw neither. He felt a surge of hope. “Briel, they have no ladders. Do you see? They’ll have to try and hack through with axes. Even
they
can’t do that!”

The Shal’tiar
officer did not acknowledge his cry, though the other Sylvs around him sent him a few condescending looks. A moment later, he saw why. At least fifty Olgrym had moved ahead of the rest and stood shoulder to shoulder, tauntingly close to longbow range. All were naked and unarmed, save for what looked like gigantic wineskins. They roared in unison and upended the wineskins over their own bodies. Dark liquid poured out. They stood a moment, arms raised, then tossed aside the wineskins.

Rowen frowned. “What?”

More Olgrym came forward with torches. They raised the torches toward the dark sky, lowered them, and touched the torches to their comrades. The Olgrym burst into flames.

“By the Light!”

Those fifty-odd Olgrym roared again—the horrible cry rang with as much desire as pain—and sprinted toward Que’ahl.

The Sylvs had already fired once before Rowen remembered the longbow in his hands. He raised it, drew back the bowstring, and let it go. He could not track his own arrow’s flight in the darkness, but he sensed at once that he’d missed.

The Sylvs were better. Arrows struck all the charging, burning Olgrym, though amazingly, only two toppled to the grasslands. The rest charged on, crazed, faster than Rowen would have thought possible. Then barely fifty yards separated them.

Rowen realized that Briel was calmly giving orders. All around him, the Sylvs were a blur, firing a second, a third, then a fourth volley while Rowen was still fumbling with his second arrow.

Rowen felt his heart in his throat as he chose a target and loosed his arrow. He knew he had not missed, though he could not be sure if it was his arrow or any one of a dozen others that sent the howling, burning warrior headfirst onto the grasslands. Rowen reached for another arrow.

A fourth of the burning Olgrym had been shot down, but the rest hurled themselves onward, some with a dozen arrows in their bodies. Some vanished into trenches and traps, only to claw their way out moments later, but others leapt clean over them. They were almost to the palisades.

That will slow them down. It has to.

He fired again and fumbled for another arrow from his quiver, just as the Olgrym reached the wooden stakes. He saw with relief that some of the Olgrym had rushed blindly forward and impaled themselves. He dared to hope that the rest would follow suit, if only to cut short the pain of burning to death. But most of the Olgrym managed to climb and claw their way past the earthwork defenses.

They flowed through the trenches and barreled past the second and third palisades, leaving more burning dead behind. But not enough. Only a few yards still separated them from Que’ahl’s gates, which were right below him. Without intending to, he’d placed himself exactly where the fighting would be fiercest. The smell of burning flesh soared up into Rowen’s nostrils. He winced, his eyes watering, and loosed another arrow.

Another furious twang resounded from the longbows of Shal’tiar
and Wyldkin. A knot of arrows met the Olgrym’s advance. Steely tips sliced organs and severed tendons. Six more Olgrym fell, burning and twitching on the grasslands. But the rest, shielded by those dying in front of them, sprinted the final few feet and flung their burning bodies at Que’ahl’s gates.

Rowen heard and felt the stout beams shudder.
They’re going to force the gates open. They’re going to burn them and force them open.

But Briel was already shouting a new set of orders. A squad of Sylvs upended fat cauldrons, pouring sand through a series of murder holes located directly above the gates. The sand spread over the burning Olgrym, suffocating the flames. Then the Sylvs sent a final volley through the murder holes, carpeting the area before Que’ahl’s gates with arrows, killing anything left alive.

Rowen shook his head in disbelief. He leaned over the wooden battlements to get a better look at the tangled, bloody mess. His stomach lurched. “All that death, and they barely even singed the gates.”

The archer next to him, a Wyldkin woman with feathers in her braided hair, gave him a sour look. Her grave expression belied the melodic beauty of her accent. “Wrong.” She pointed.

Rowen’s heart jumped into his throat again. The whole time they had been concentrating on bringing down the burning Olgrym, the rest of the host had been charging about fifty yards behind them. They had already reached the palisades and were either clambering over them or using gigantic axes to hack down the wooden stakes. The sound of splintering wood mingled with their guttural shouts.

Rowen stared. The Wyldkin woman loosed an arrow then kicked him. She shouted in the Sylvan tongue for him to wake up.

Rowen fumbled for another arrow. The Olgrym were so close that he hardly needed to aim. He could see their cold eyes, their gray skin stretched taut over bulging muscles and occasional protrusions of bone.

Then he saw the rocks. Those Olgrym who had armed themselves with boulders were heaving them over the stronghold’s walls with the force of catapults. Rowen heard an awful, ominous
crack
to his right
.
He turned to see a guard tower struck by a flurry of boulders. The tower was crowded with archers. Some of the Sylvs managed to leap clear, but others burst in grisly showers of blood under the weight of the jagged rocks.