Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (28 page)

Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?
“She could have finished this by killing those purple-eyed bastards. Instead, she spirited them away. Every day is another chance for her to end this, and she doesn’t take it. But she’s pretty, and you’ve seen her naked, and she acts helpless even though she isn’t, so I may as well be talking to a wall.”

Rowen winced at the insult then laughed. “You’re wrong. At least, I hope you are.” He sighed. “So are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind? Who’s Leander?”

Jalist tensed. “What—”

“I try to keep my distance when it’s dark, but the fact is, you talk in your sleep.” Rowen smirked. “Wouldn’t have thought much of it, but the past few days, I’ve heard you mutter that name at least a dozen times while you were awake, too. So who is it? An enemy? Some old lover? A god I’ve never heard of?”

Jalist meant to deny it. Instead, he said, “Only a god to me.”

Rowen grinned. “I thought so. Tell me about this living god of yours.”

Jalist glared at him. “I like it better when you’re stupid.”

“Me, too.”

Why haven’t I told him before? Gods know Locke isn’t like other men. He wouldn’t give a piss what my lover has between the legs.
Still, Jalist hesitated.

“We’ll start simple. Alive or dead?”

“Alive. At least, he was when I left him.”

“How long ago was that?”

Jalist went back to sharpening his axe. “Years and years. Before you knew me.”

Rowen nodded thoughtfully. “Someone you cared about enough to still be thinking about them a good ten years later. But someone you can’t go back and see because—”

“Because my people treat man-lovers like kindling for campfires. That clear enough for you?” Jalist’s eyes stung as he spoke. He hoped that would conclude the matter, but Rowen persisted.

“So get him out of there. If he’s… like you… isn’t he in the same danger?”

Jalist scraped the whetstone down his axe, drawing sparks in the moonlight. “No. Not Leander. The mobs can get away with almost anything. They could butcher a Housecarl, and the king would give them a cask of wine as thanks for rooting out a traitor to our ways. But killing… even
accusing
… the king’s son is another matter.”

Rowen was quiet for a moment. Then he whistled softly. “You finally start to make sense, my friend. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Because I knew that you’d tell me to go off on some damn fairy-tale rescue. Only I’m no knight, and Leander isn’t my gods-damned maiden. It’s all over and done. It was done before you and your brother even met me. So drop it.”

Rowen winced. Jalist made to work the whetstone again but slipped and dragged his knuckles down the edge of his axe. He cursed as blood swelled from a gash in his gray-tinged skin. Rowen tore a strip of silk from his tabard and handed it to him.

Touched, Jalist accepted it, but he said nothing as he wound the fabric around his fist and tied it. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask your wytch to heal it for me.”

“Didn’t think you’d accept.” Rowen sighed. “Stop being stupid and go to Stillhammer. I don’t need you here. I’ll be in the Wytchforest by morning. If the Sylvs mean to kill me, your axe won’t make a damn bit of difference.” He squeezed Jalist’s shoulder. “You’ve done enough. More than I had a right to ask for. You helped get me here. Silwren and Briel will keep me safe now. Stop your bellyaching and get out of here.”

Jalist blinked. “No. You may have mule dung for brains, but I’m not about to leave you with—”

“Go,” Rowen repeated. He stood, smiling. “
My
war, Jalist. Not yours. Head straight east, travel at night, and you’ll slip past the Olgrym and the Dhargots better than I ever could.” He took a pouch from his belt and pressed it into Jalist’s hands. Jalist felt coins inside. “That’s all I have left, but it’s more than I’ll need in Shaffrilon. Keep the horse. I don’t like how he’s been eyeing Snowdark, anyway.”

Jalist looked past him, to where Silwren still stood statue-still, and wondered if she’d heard their conversation. “Forget it, Locke. I’ve come this far. I’ll finish it.”

“Finish what? If the Wytchforest were any closer, I’d be leaning on it. Either the Sylvan king will kill me, or he’ll laugh in my face. Probably the latter… meaning I’ll just head north, try to keep ahead of the snow. Maybe I’ll even go back to Lyos. They like me there.”

Liar
.
Sooner or later, you’ll go looking for Igrid. Or else you’ll stay with that platinum-haired wytch until she gets you killed.
He tried to smile. “You never were very smart.”

“Never claimed to be.” Rowen squeezed Jalist’s arm again. “Get going, you dunce. If you make it, look for me on the Lotus Isles someday. I’ll be the brooding bastard in battered armor.”

And with that, Rowen Locke smiled and walked to the far side of the camp, apart from Silwren and Briel. He did not turn around as Jalist gathered his things, paused to wipe his eyes, and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mercy

“S
weet gods, what has he done?” Saanji sat in the saddle and stared at the grisly scene before him. He wished he were still drunk. But given the possibility that his eldest brother had summoned him simply so that he could kill him, Saanji had decided to stop drinking hours before he reached Cassica. He faced a moonlit field south of the city walls. Though the battlements of the city blazed with fires and resounded with laughter, the field caught his attention.

At first glance, the field had been planted with hundreds and hundreds of poorly stuffed scarecrows. But Saanji knew better. “How… how many, do you think?”

His steward, who looked as pale as he imagined he did, stammered a reply. “Maybe… three thousand, Prince.”

Three thousand…
Saanji was close enough to hear the creaking of wooden stakes amid the whimpers of the slowly dying. Their limbs waved feebly in the darkness. All the impaled, mostly men, were nude. They looked gaunt, as though they’d been starved and beaten long before they were impaled. Saanji realized he must be gazing upon the remains of Cassica’s army.

Just then, the wind shifted, and an overwhelming reek washed over him: sweat, tears, and bodily filth. He covered his mouth to keep from retching. He drew some small comfort when his stern-faced steward leaned over his horse, shaking, and threw up his supper on the dark grass of the Simurgh Plains. Meanwhile, his host rolled to a stop behind him. Horses whinnied at the frightful smell. He heard other soldiers curse or retch. A few cried.

Moments later, the steward touched his arm and pointed back at the city. In the distance, the gates were opening. A squad of riders emerged from behind the dark walls. The steward wiped his mouth. Saanji straightened in the saddle. Some of the approaching riders held lanterns. By their glow, Saanji expected to see his brother coming. But the gray-haired rider leading the squad was smaller than Karhaati by half a foot, though just as broad-shouldered.

“General Umaari, where is my brother?”

The general scowled and narrowed his eyes. “He’s gone north, Prince Saanji, to seek sport with the Ivairians. He was not expecting you for two more days.”

That’s why he isn’t here to greet me himself. Should I be relieved?
Saanji pointed at the vast field of suffering bodies. “The letter said Cassica surrendered. They
surrendered,
Umaari. Why were these men impaled?”

The Dhargothi general frowned. “These are the soldiers of the enemy. Your brother chose to make an example of them, to dissuade rebellion and disobedience among the remaining city populace.”

Saanji touched the hilt of the ceremonial shortsword at his side. Though he had almost no real training or skill with weapons, he imagined drawing that sword and beheading the general. But he reminded himself that others were more deserving of blame. “Where is General Brahasti?”

“Dismissed, Prince. He’s been released to the west until your brother needs him again.” Umaari’s curt tone made it clear that his use of Saanji’s title was reluctant. To him, Saanji was merely the Tomato Prince.

Saanji felt his cheeks flush. He forced himself to smile. “My brothers have always had a good-natured rivalry as far as cruelty is concerned. I’m told that when Ziraari took Hesod, he impaled a thousand souls in the Dragongod’s name.”

General Umaari grinned. “The Bloody Prince has more than thrice-honored the Dead God.”

Saanji glanced at his steward. “Well counted.” He faced Umaari again. “When does my dear brother return?”

“By dawn, Prince. If you like, I am acquainted with his plans for you.” Saanji started to reach for his sword, but Umaari said, “He wants you to take over the governance of Cassica whilst overseeing the supply lines for all Dhargots in the field.” He spoke as though it were a trivial matter.

Saanji nodded carefully. “Until we march for the Wytchforest?”

Umaari answered with a thin smile. “I will leave the talk of such matters to your brother, Prince.”

Gods, we’re going to betray Fadarah, aren’t we?
Saanji turned back to the creaking field of impaled victims. His stomach quivered. “General, until my brother returns, I am in command, am I not?”

Umaari blinked. “Yes, Prince.”

“Then here is my first order: send out squads of spearmen and put all of those people out of their misery. I want it done quick. But… give each one a drink of wine before it’s done.”

Umaari started to laugh, as did the squad of Dhargots behind him. The Dhargots massed behind Saanji did not.

Umaari’s expression sobered. He touched the necklace of dried ears around his throat. “Prince, what you ask—”

“I ask nothing, General. I am a son of the Red Emperor. My every breath is a command. Now, will you obey, or would you prefer to join the impaled?” Acting on sudden impulse, Saanji drew his shortsword. To his surprise, an impressive chorus of scraping metal told him that the thousands of Dhargots massed behind him had done the same.

Umaari’s horse reared, nearly dumping the general on the ground. Umaari regained control of his mount by cursing and raking its flanks with his spurs. Then he bowed. “I am yours to command, Prince Saanji.”

At least, for the next few hours.
“Good. Also, my men are tired. See to it that they’re given food and lodging.”

“I will.” Umaari added with a toothy grin, “There are a number of young Cassican girls still alive. I could send those, too, if you like.”

The wind shifted again, washing a fresh wave of Human reek over them. Saanji’s eyes stung. “If I want them, General, I’ll let you know.” Snapping the reins, he rode past the general, into the city.

Rowen woke to see Briel hovering over him, his Sylvan features framed in darkness. He reached for Knightswrath, but Briel held up his empty hands and whispered, “I came to wake you, not cut your throat. Stand up. We have to move.”

Silwren stood just beyond, wrapped tightly in a cloak. She said nothing but nodded toward the north. Rowen swore. He stood, fumbling with his sword as he glanced at the purple fire on the horizon.

“I thought your captain said the fighting was done for the night.”

“Even Captain Essidel makes mistakes.” Briel girded his sword, grabbed the reins of the horses, and brought Snowdark over to Rowen, leaving Silwren to get her own horse. “If the Shel’ai are attacking the strongholds, we can’t wait until morning. I have to get you into the forest now.”

“But you said the archers in the trees—”

“We’ll have to risk it.” Briel mounted his horse.

Rowen wondered if the violet glare on the northern horizon meant that Que’ahl was under attack again. Maybe it had already fallen.
Gods, Jalist, did you get far enough east, or did I release you in time to get you killed?

Briel yelled, “Knight, we have to ride!”

Rowen patted Snowdark’s neck and pulled himself into the saddle.

Silwren held out her hand, and her horse came to her. Silwren mounted and joined them. “The Dwarr lives. He made it far enough east before the next attack began.”

“I’ll ride ahead and tell the archers you’re coming,” Briel said. “Don’t delay, but don’t gallop after me, either. Give me time to convince them not to kill you.” With that, the Sylv spurred his horse southward and rode off into the night.

Silwren said, “He’s worried about his captain.”

“I’d rather he were worried about us.” Rowen glanced north one last time then faced south and snapped the reins.

An hour later, Briel found them. On foot, he materialized out of the darkness so easily that Rowen jumped, despite his best efforts to keep a sharp watch. He might have cursed, but the taut look on Briel’s face told him to be silent. Shadows moved in the darkness behind Briel, each armed with a black bow. Rowen counted at least a dozen Sylvan archers, but a hundred more could have been lurking in the shadows.

Briel said, “Captain Essidel has vouched for both of you… as have I… but if you attempt to get away from us, we will shoot you full of arrows before you get ten feet. Also, you must surrender your weapons.”

Rowen remembered being told the same thing outside the palace of King Hidas at Atheion. But poised to enter the Wytchforest, presumably to be taken before the Sylvan king, he hesitated. Then he unbuckled Knightswrath and passed it to Briel. Rowen was not surprised when the Sylvan archers did not seem to relax in the slightest. After all, they could not disarm a Shel’ai.

Rowen glanced at Silwren. He hoped that Briel had introduced her only as a Shel’ai. He hated to think what the Sylvs would do if they found out Rowen and Briel had escorted a Dragonkin into their kingdom.

A dark-garbed, green-hooded Sylv brought Briel’s horse, and the Shal’tiar sergeant mounted again. “Stay close,” he warned.

“Just take me to the king,” Rowen said. He eyed the archers, who seemed to be retreating into the darkness. “Will they follow us?”

Briel said, “Yes, but you won’t see them,” and started riding again.

Despite the fabled size of the Wytchforest, the night was so thick that Rowen did not even realize they’d entered it until he rode past a dark, gnarled tree. When he craned his neck up and up, curious how tall they were, he was unable to see the top against the stars. Almost immediately, Briel cautioned him to keep moving. Rowen nodded, his heart beating faster. Already, thanks to El’rash’lin’s memories, the darkness felt strangely familiar. The next time he rode past a wytchwood tree, he reached out, touched the gnarled bark, and smiled.

But El’rash’lin never went to Shaffrilon. Neither did Silwren, or Fadarah or Shade, or any of them, as far as I know.
Rowen pushed the thought from his mind, took a deep breath of forest air, and tried to rehearse what he would say to the Sylvan king. Before long, the rising sun cascaded through the dense forest, and the majesty of his surroundings washed over him. Speechless, he stared at trees that seemed to rise higher than any tower or spire he’d ever seen. And for the first time, he realized he was surrounded not by a dozen hidden archers but by hundreds.

Some moved amid the trees, staring impassively with weapons in hand, but most watched from above. Great wooden platforms had been built into nearly every tree, about twenty feet up, and were connected by a seemingly endless network of rope bridges. Sylvs stood, statue-like, on every platform and bridge. Unlike the Wyldkin, they wore no feathers in their hair and wore brown and forest green, but their eyes shown with the same mistrust.

A short while later, he caught sight of a broad white wall beyond the trees. It rose so high that it faded into daylight, dominating the southern horizon, creating an implausibly huge span of polished snowy marble. He pointed. “I didn’t think Sylvs built castles.”

Briel’s sour expression melted into a slight smile. “That’s no castle, Human. You’re staring at the base of the World Tree.”

Rowen’s eyes widened. “But you said we’re still a day away!”

“But close enough to see the biggest, oldest tree in the world, Human.”

Considering the armed, mistrustful Sylvs watching them from every angle, Rowen knew he should keep quiet, but he could not help himself. “If it weren’t for the surrounding forest, would we have been able to see the World Tree from Que’ahl?”

Briel’s smile broadened. “Human, if it weren’t for the surrounding forest, and the clouds, you’d probably be able to see the World Tree all the way from Lyos.” The grandeur of the Sylv’s words overshadowed the mockery in his voice.

Rowen turned to Silwren, about to ask her why she, who had lived in the Wytchforest for a time, had never described something so wondrous. But the words died in his throat when he saw the tears in her eyes. He reminded himself that while Silwren had grown up in the Wytchforest—she was one of very few Shel’ai who could make that claim—her parents had been murdered.

Gods, I’ve never even asked her about her parents, her family!
Until the previous night, he’d had no idea about Jalist’s ill-fated affair with the Dwarrish prince, either. Guilt filled him, but it turned abruptly to worry when a squad of Sylvan fighters appeared before them. Unlike the others, they held drawn swords. Briel dismounted and went to meet them. When they argued, Rowen started to reach for Knightswrath—then realized he no longer had it.