Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 3

  Ziraari the Potent, indeed.

  When he reached a tent thrice the size of the others, wreathed by its own trench and palisade, he knew he’d reached his destination. He circled the tent slowly, pretending to be bound for elsewhere. He counted ten guards—too many to kill. He doubted he could bluff his way in, either.

  Cursing, he returned to searching the camp. Soon, he found another tent that was bigger than the others but still smaller than Ziraari’s, with a gaudy standard showing the impaled dragon planted beside a tent flap sewn with brass toggles. Only two guards stood outside.

  An officer. A general, maybe.

  Nodding, he searched the camp a third time before he found what he needed: a cart heaped with sacks of grain. The cart had already been fixed to a mule but abandoned, as though the driver had wandered off and gotten drunk. Shade climbed into the cart as casually as he could, grateful for the chance to sit, and drove the cart back toward the second large tent. He stopped the cart at the rear of the tent. Luckily, the guards either did not hear him or did not care. Still, he wandered off, in case anybody else happened to be looking.

  He waited at least a quarter of an hour then circled back. Using the cart as a shield to block what he was doing, he crouched, drew his sword, and cut his way into the tent. He stepped in, sword drawn. His Shel’ai senses allowed him to see as well as an animal. He spotted a single sleeping Dhargot inside the dark tent. The man was snoring, probably drunk. Shade approached him stealthily, covered his mouth, and cut his throat. The man’s eyes widened.

  Sheathing his sword, Shade looked at his hands, shaking in the dark. Then he washed off the blood using a nearby water basin and searched the tent for the dead man’s armor. When he found it, he removed his borrowed armor as quietly as he could and donned the officer’s armor. It looked more impressive but was also more complex, with a frustrating overabundance of buckles. He guessed the general often had extra help. When he thought he had it right, Shade threw a black silk cape over his shoulders and fixed the dragon-shaped clasp beneath his throat.

  The general’s helmet was an equally extravagant thing with a high, sharp crest exploding into a weave of black-and-crimson plumes and precious stones lining the nose-guard. The helmet reeked of sweat, but he put it on anyway. Then he slipped out the slash in the tent, back into the camp.

  Ziraari’s tent was well lit and smelled of lamp oil and strong wine. A bear of a man, naked and muscular, the prince stood before a table, studying a stack of reports. He did not look up as Shade entered. The guards had not challenged him, but they were still just one shout away. Careful to keep his eyes low, Shade approached the Dhargothi prince, bowed, and removed his helmet. He waited until Ziraari looked up.

  “If you scream, I’ll burn you to cinders.”

  To Shade’s surprise, Ziraari answered with a cold sneer. “Ziraari never screams out of fear. Only when he runs out of enemies or women does he scream.” Ziraari straightened, not bothering to cover himself, and crossed his strong arms. “You are the one who calls himself Shade. Haven’t seen you in years. You’ve grown balls of solid brass since then, to come into my camp like this.” He looked Shade over. “I trust General Cafaari is dead, since you wear his armor. How many more did you kill?”

  “Two sentries and a deserter.”

  “My thanks for the deserter, but you should have let him suffer.” Ziraari looked down at the table, openly eyeing a ruby-encrusted bastard sword. “You really think you can burn me before I cut your head off?”

  “Whether or not we find out depends on you.”

  Ziraari’s grin said he approved of Shade’s answer. “You look tired, Sorcerer. I think you burned through whatever dragonmist you had getting in here. I don’t think you have enough strength left to kill me. But talk, if that’s why you’re here. Ziraari will listen.”

  Caught off guard, Shade asked the first question that occurred to him. “Why did your men attack me?”

  “Because I told them to.”

  Shade raised one eyebrow. “Forgive me, Prince. I was hoping for a little more detail.”

  Ziraari uncrossed his arms. Shade tensed, but instead of reaching for the sword, the prince picked up a nearby goblet of wine and took a sip. “We hear the sorcerers lost at the Wytchforest. Weak and desperate now. Why waste lives helping them?”

  So much for honor. “There’s no way you could have heard about our defeat this quickly.”

  Ziraari grinned again. “I didn’t need to hear anything. I knew you’d lose. And even if you didn’t, you’d be weak after all that fighting. My dear brother Karhaati”—he stopped to spit on the floor—“said I should help you fight the Sylvs. I decided not to. Is that clear enough?”

  All too clear. Shade changed tactics. “Forgive me for being blunt, Prince Ziraari, but your brother sent you here to die. We both know that.” Shade waited, but Ziraari’s face betrayed nothing. “He wanted to get rid of a rival. You chose not to waste your strength and risk your life by helping us. That was a wise move. Attacking us was not.”

  Ziraari took another sip of wine, set down the goblet, and crossed his arms again. “Dhargots like a challenge. And they gave us one.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  Ziraari frowned. “Those others. The four. Three men and the pretty woman with short black hair. Never met a Shel’ai with dark hair before.” He laughed. “The woman wouldn’t talk, but the men did. That’s how we knew, too.”

  Shade clenched his fist; tendrils of wytchfire sputtered between his fingers. Before the final battle at Shaffrilon, a Shel’ai woman named Zeia, one of Fadarah’s oldest allies, had deserted. Three other Shel’ai had gone with her. Rather than kill them for their defiance, Fadarah had simply let them go. In all the chaos, Shade had forgotten them. Four Shel’ai might have made the difference at Shaffrilon. “Where are they?”

  Ziraari drew back a step. “Three are dead. Cost me eighteen men to put them down, but by the Dragongod, it was worth it! Such a sight—”

  “And the fourth?”

  “The woman. My new pet. Two arrows in her pretty white skin, and still, she spurted fire when we threw her in the hole.” He smiled with cold admiration. “I’ve never bedded a Shel’ai before. But we’ll let her starve a little first. Ziraari doesn’t want his cock burned off.” When Shade said nothing, Ziraari frowned. “Aren’t they why you come?”

  Shade steadied his nerves. “I’m going to do something I usually don’t do, Prince. I’m going to tell you the truth. I’m here because Fadarah is dying. A so-called Isle Knight cut him open at Shaffrilon. We need your help to get him back to our stronghold near the Wintersea.”

  Ziraari blinked. “We should play dice sometime, Sorcerer. If you survive, that is.”

  Shade caught his meaning but doubted that Ziraari would send half his army to scour the Wintersea when he was already in the middle of a war. “I speak the truth so that you’ll know you can trust what I am about to say next.” He paused for effect. “Karhaati wants you dead.”

  “He does?” Ziraari feigned shock then laughed. “You tell me what I already know.”

  “Call it a reminder, then. Karhaati is first in line to replace the Red Emperor when he dies, and from everything I hear, your youngest brother, Saanji, is no threat to anyone. You have ten thousand men with you, but they’re all footmen. I saw hardly any horses and no elephants—”

  “Damn Noshans poisoned my elephants. Unless it was Lochurites. Can’t say. But both will burn.”

  Shade smiled coldly, heartened by the prince’s display of emotion. “As I recall, Karhaati has a whole herd of armored elephants. Cavalry and chariots besides. Plus half a dozen conquered cities that he can bleed for wealth and slaves. And he has twice as many footmen as you do. If it comes to a fight, you’ll lose.”

  Ziraari bristled but said nothing.

 
; “You need all the help you can get. See us safely back to the Wintersea, and I’ll kill Karhaati for you.”

  Ziraari studied Shade. “Ziraari has seen magic. He knows what it can do. It can’t do that.”

  Shade smirked. “Magic got me into your tent, and I haven’t even slept for two days.”

  The Dhargot picked up his goblet again. He seemed to be pondering this. Shade pressed his advantage. “Once Karhaati is dead, his army will flock to your banner. Even Saanji’s men—”

  Ziraari spat on the floor again. “Saanji’s men are soft! Like him, they reject the Way of Ears. Like him, they deserve to die.”

  “Then you can kill him, too. And your father, once you get back to Dhargoth.” Shade decided to take a chance. Reaching out, he picked up Ziraari’s sword and handed it to the prince, hilt first. The rubies sparkled in the lamplight. “But first, Karhaati has to die. We can help you kill him. Or you can call your guards and gain nothing. Your choice, my prince.”

  Ziraari eyed the sword then took it. He held it as though testing its balance. Shade braced himself, hoping he had the strength to defend himself.

  Surely, even if Ziraari accepted his proposal, he would turn on him as soon as Shade had outlived his usefulness. But that will take time. If we can make it back to Coldhaven, if we can marshal what little strength we have left—

  Ziraari looked up, grinning suddenly. He reversed his jeweled sword and tucked the blade under one arm. He extended his other hand. “Ziraari accepts your proposal. Help me kill my brother, and I’ll see you safely back to the Wintersea. I swear it on the Dead God.”

  Just as you swore to help us fight the Sylvs? Shade took Ziraari’s hand, grasping the man at the wrist. He felt the Dhargothi prince’s pulse beneath his fingertips and fought the urge to boil it with fire. “Agreed. One more thing, though.” He tightened his grip. “Zeia. The Shel’ai woman you stuck in a hole. I want her back. Alive.”

  “Why, so you can bed her yourself?”

  “So I can kill her.”

  Ziraari looked confused. Finally, he laughed. He picked up his goblet again. He drank until wine stained his braided goatee. “So be it. The bitch is yours.” He called in his guards. “Wake my generals. Tell them the Shel’ai are our allies again. No one is to harm them. Then give this one an escort, fifty of my best men. They are to do whatever he asks. Any man who does otherwise will be impaled, on my orders.” With a sidelong glance at Shade, he added, “Don’t bother trying to wake General Cafaari. He sleeps with the Dead God tonight.” Suddenly stoic, he upended his goblet, letting the final few drips of red wine fall to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ghosts

  Briel shook his head as he surveyed the destruction. Dawn filtered through the dense wytchwoods and illuminated the shattered remnants of the World Gate. His right arm hung in a sling, but he clenched his fist. The Sylvs, dead and wounded alike, had been carted away, but there had been no time to dispose of the slain Olgrym. Their great gray bodies lay everywhere, poised to rot. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the smell.

  He glanced up at the sky, barely visible through the soaring branches of the World Tree, and wished it would rain. But he knew that any darkness in the heavens came not from an impending storm but from the lingering smoke of battle. He glanced at the phalanx of men and women following him. Some were bodyguards, but most were administrators, plus a few junior officers who had somehow survived the fighting. All looked exhausted.

  But not as tired as the men guarding those damn broken gates.

  He turned to face the World Gate again. Though the gates themselves had been hacked and burned to pieces, a line of Sylvan swordsmen still stood where the gates had been, as motionless as forsaken statues. Archers stood watch from above, enough to shred an entire company of enemies. He wondered if they were enough.

  Though Fadarah had been killed and the Shel’ai driven back, many Olgrym had survived. So had Doomsayer. Scouts reported that the Olgish chieftain was still close by, marshaling what remained of his forces. Given all that had happened, Briel doubted the Olgrym could conquer Shaffrilon without Fadarah’s help.

  But does Doomsayer know that?

  “We need more fighters here,” he called over his shoulder. “And before anybody tells me there aren’t any, I suggest you go look. Our brothers and sisters will have died for nothing if Doomsayer sleeps in the king’s palace tonight.”

  An uneasy murmur accompanied the sound of footsteps. By the time he turned around, half the administrators had disappeared. Briel could tell they were not used to taking his orders. He could not blame them. Briel had only been appointed captain of the Shal’tiar a few days ago—though he’d held the post long enough to realize there could not be more than a dozen Shal’tiar left alive. The surviving Wyldkin had already deserted, presumably to return to the Ash’bana Plains to see if they could salvage something of their home villages. Briel might have stopped them, but he had no desire to punish those who had already sacrificed defending Sylvos.

  The rest of his fighters were hastily armed civilians, almost none of whom had even known Briel before the attack. They might have gladly followed Seravin, but the renowned Sylvan general had fallen in battle. Not only had he been stabbed by an Olgish blade as he tried to defend the World Gate, it was said that Doomsayer himself had laughingly cut off both of Seravin’s hands before castrating him.

  If Seravin survives the day, it’ll be a miracle. Or a curse.

  That left Briel in charge of the Sylvan armies—and the city, since they could no longer rely on the king. He tugged at the strap securing his broken arm, then with his good hand, he tapped his new signet ring against the pommel of his sword. He considered breaking down the door of the king’s bedchamber and dragging him out, but he reminded himself that only the day before, the king had watched his only son burned alive. Even before that, the king’s sanity had been unraveling. Did they really want Loslandril on the throne, anyway?

  But who does that leave? Me?

  Briel laughed before he could stop himself. Sobering his expression, he turned. He gestured to his bodyguards. “You, men, join those others at the gates. And someone see that these men at the gates get water and food. If any man survives the Olgrym and the Shel’ai only to die of thirst, I’ll be very unhappy.” He glanced back up the Path of Crowns. “I’m going back to the House of Healing to check on our wounded. If there’s any other business that doesn’t involve Doomsayer on our doorstep, it can wait.”

  He started back up the walkway without waiting for a reply.

  The House of Healing looked nearly identical to the House of Questions, wherein for centuries, strategies had been planned and prisoners interrogated—a fact that Briel noticed for the first time as he ascended the steps and passed a line of pillars and statues.

  Did they really carry all the wounded up these steps?

  He shook his head and resisted the impulse to order them demolished and replaced by a more accessible ramp. Once inside the sprawling marble structure, he returned the salutes of two guards with a quick nod, then simply followed the screams.

  He passed more statues of gods and goddesses—Tier’Gothma, Armahg, Maelmohr, and Dyoni—before he paused beside one devoted to Zet. Portrayed as a fierce, haughty warrior in draconian armor, his six wings angled gracefully from his back. Briel wondered if the sculptor had thought to leave gaps in the armor or if the wings were part of the armor itself. He scowled up at the statue.

  I don’t know if you ever even lived, but if so, it’s a fine damn mess you left for us.

  Composing himself, he pressed on. The wounded were being tended in a great, sprawling chamber that reeked of filth and decay. Briel pinched his nose. He marveled that it could be worse inside than it was at the gates. Then he saw the cause: the chamber had no windows near the ground. The only windows in the entire chamber were th
e ornate, arrow-thin slits high on the arched walls.

  Pretty, but useless… like most everything else here.

  He forced himself to breathe, but the stench made him swoon. Resisting the impulse to retch, he studied the Sylvan clerics—all of them devoted not to the gods but to the Light—who rushed to and fro, tending the wounded and the dying. The chamber had long since run out of beds, and hundreds lay on the cold stone floor, bloody and shivering.

  Briel’s revulsion turned to pity. Clearly, the clerics were horribly outmatched. Used to treating just the occasional injury or mild bout of sickness, they had been forced to handle at least a thousand men whose bodies had been beaten, burned, or cleaved within an inch of death. Briel realized he should have forced the Wyldkin to stay, if only for their skill at treating wounds.

  Nearby, a young, exhausted cleric probed a screaming man’s wound with steel calipers while two other clerics tried to hold the man down. Seeing at once what was wrong, Briel hurried over.

  “He says there’s something in the wound, Captain,” the cleric said. He paused to wipe blood from his face, onto his sleeve. “Must be an arrowhead, but I can’t find it.”

  Briel gave the wide-eyed patient a piteous look. “Can’t be an arrowhead. Olgrym don’t use arrows.” He gently pushed the cleric aside and took his place. He gripped his own tunic with the hand of his broken arm so that the arm would stay in place as he leaned forward, probing the outside of a ghastly rend in the man’s side. The man whimpered. “Gods, didn’t you give him any blood-tea for the pain?”

  The cleric held up his bloody hands helplessly. “We have run out, Captain. Almost no herbs left, either. And we barely have enough wine to clean the wounds.”

  Briel shook his head but said nothing. He pressed the man’s flesh a moment longer then nodded. “There’s nothing in there. He’s just mad from fever. Don’t use boiled wine on this one. Boil water, then let it cool—but not much. Don’t sew him up, either. The wound’s already infected. Cover it with clean linen and let it seep.”