Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (31 page)

Essidel could tell by his cousin’s tone that the general did not expect his riders to be victorious. He rubbed his shoulder and tested his arm. To his relief, he felt no errant shifting of bones. “They can’t take Shaffrilon in a day. The Olgrym are scattered all over the forest. That means they’ll have to set up a fortified camp somewhere. If we can guess where—”

“Guess all you like, cousin. We ride to Shaffrilon to protect our king.”

The general jerked the bridle from Essidel’s grasp and rode off, his riders trailing after. Most of his footmen followed, but some lingered, seeming uncertain. They made a show of gathering the wounded. Essidel wanted to curse them, but he understood.
They know he’s leading them to a slaughter. If Shaffrilon is going to burn, better they not be there to see it.

He shook his head. The Olgrym had broken through the Sylvan lines, but sprinting all the way to Shaffrilon would only leave them too exhausted to fight. He might expect that kind of brash action from Doomsayer or the other chieftains, but Fadarah was not that stupid. He had to realize that a realm as huge as Sylvos could not be taken in a single day. He would halt his forces somewhere, fortify his position, and recoup his strength.

Unless he just means to use up the Olgrym against us…
He remembered what Silwren and Rowen had said about the Dhargots.
Could another army even now be marching on Sylvos?
If so, when would it arrive?
He tried to remember the particulars of what had seemed, at the time, too implausible to believe.

As he helped one wounded man onto his feet and another bandage a slashed arm, he thought that, for the moment, it did not matter where the Dhargots were. The Olgrym and the Shel’ai were already in Sylvos. The Olgrym could not be driven out; they would have to be tracked and killed down to the last man. But the Shel’ai were another story. For all their scheming and murder, they were also cautious—perhaps to a fault. If he could deal them a serious blow, they might withdraw and leave the Olgrym on their own, trusting that they could always renew their siege of Sylvos once the Dhargots arrived to help them.

But how do I hurt the Shel’ai?
He thought at once of Silwren. Briel had surely led her and the Knight of the Crane to Shaffrilon… but how had King Loslandril responded to them? He had received no word. Essidel trusted Briel to get them safely to the World Tree, but what happened after that was up to the king.

Of course, even if they were alive, Shaffrilon was still a full day’s march, at the heart of the forest. And if the king
did
agree to accept their help—he had little choice—Silwren would be needed there.

No, I’m on my own…
Essidel glanced down at his new sword. The woman who had given it to him knelt nearby, stone faced, holding the hand of a man whose belly had been opened. The man whispered something to her. She whispered back. He nodded. Then, with an iciness to put any of his Shal’tiar
to shame, she drew her sword and stabbed him.

Essidel had seen fighters put their comrades out of their misery before, but the sight still unnerved him. He went to her.

Wiping off her blade, she glanced up at him. “A fine war you’ve lost here, Captain.”

Essidel bit back an angry retort and scrutinized her garb. She wore her armor like a soldier, but most of General Seravin’s host had little or no training.
Who is this woman?
“Why didn’t you follow the general?”

She shrugged. “Plenty of blades and blows rushing back to Shaffrilon. Not many guarding the rest of the realm. Towns out there need protecting, too, what with a few thousand Olgrym marauding around our kingdom. Figure I can do as much good back here without all that running around.”

She doesn’t talk like a forest dweller. More like a Wyldkin. But if she is, what’s she doing in the regular army?

“Then come with me,” he said. He raised his voice, rallying those around him. “Our beloved king is in the hands of the general. We have another task. I mean to make for Jen’hanai, raise whatever force I can, and strike out.”

The woman gave him a cold look. “You want to lead us against the Olgrym again? Seems you didn’t do so well the last time.”

Essidel saw his surviving Shal’tiar
bristle at this insult of their commander, but some of the green-cloaked Sylvs nodded, seemingly preferring to blame him over General Seravin. “I don’t mean to fight the Olgrym any more than I have to. I mean to find Fadarah and kill him.”

Everyone stared, speechless.

Then the woman smirked. “That has a nice ring to it.” She sheathed her sword, stooped, and retrieved a spear. “I’ll take that sword back after he kills you. In the meantime, my name is Khi’as. And if you’re serious about this, Captain, I bet I know where we can find him.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Prisoner

L
ong after Rowen had given up pounding on the locked door and calling for the guards, he continued to pace his new living quarters. Located in a squat structure the Sylvs called the House of Questions, built high up in the World Tree, the room had a single arched window offering a dizzying view of the forest far below. He could gaze out the window, even climb out if he wished, but there was nothing to cling to, and it was a sheer drop hundreds and hundreds of feet, all the way to the forest floor.

Still, despite being a prison, the room contained more finery than anything he had ever seen. The floor was glossy wytchwood, and the walls were covered in murals depicting what he guessed were key battles from the Shattering War. He saw no representation of Fâyu Jinn and his Knights, but again and again, he saw one figure, presumably King Shigella, leading a revolt against winged, fire-eyed Dragonkin with burning hands. He thought that they looked a bit too similar to Silwren for his comfort.

Then he noted with amusement that in a few murals, Shel’ai appeared to be fighting alongside the Sylvs. Apparently, someone had not taken kindly to those depictions. Unlike the others, which were as pristine as though they had been painted that day, those depicting the Shel’ai had been slashed with knives. Over one, he found potent Sylvan slurs that—thanks to El’rash’lin—he was able to decipher.

Rowen had been in the Wytchforest for four days, locked in that room for three. An old woman who refused to look at or respond to him brought him food: whey bread, sweet fruits he had never seen before, a strange but delicious stew of spiced vegetables, and sweet Sylvan wine. He had a bed more comfortable than the one he’d slept on in Atheion. For light, his room contained a single luminstone. He was even given water to bathe with. In place of a chamber pot was actual piping that surpassed anything in Lyos.

Shelves held books—histories of Sylvos predating the Shattering War, mythologies of the gods and dragons, and stories from the days of the Dragonkin. Rowen tried to keep himself from going mad with frustration and boredom by delving into tales of the creation of the Sylvs, who were fashioned by the Dragonkin as slaves, coupled with the Dragonkins’ slow descent into madness.

Gods, I need to get out of here!
But the door to his room, locked and guarded, was as unlikely an escape route as his window. Besides, he did not know what he would do if he managed to escape. The Sylvan king had refused to see him. No prefect or general had bothered to visit him, either. Knightswrath had been taken and, like Silwren, could have been anywhere. Despite the initial awe he’d felt at the sight of the World Tree, his arrival at the Sylvan capital had been maddeningly anticlimactic.

He glanced out the window and wondered if they simply wanted him to kill himself. His jailors’ animosity was obvious in their expressions, as well as the muttered curses they probably did not know he understood, but otherwise, they had not assaulted him. Briel had accompanied them at first. The stern Shal’tiar
made certain that Rowen was not mistreated but coldly ignored his questions, refusing to say where Silwren had been taken.

Since then, no one had spoken to him. The guards in the hallway entered his room only to make sure he did not attack the old woman who brought in his provisions and changed his linens, but he could learn nothing else of what was happening in Sylvos. Still, Rowen knew something was wrong.

Even from his extravagant prison, he could hear commotion. Through the window, he saw crowds moving far below. They were too far to discern clearly, but he thought he saw what looked like refugees flowing into the city while what could only be soldiers marched out in column after column of forest-green cloaks.

The war must be going badly
. He thought of Que’ahl and wondered if Captain Essidel was still holding the strongholds or if the Olgrym had finally broken through. If so, had they breeched the Wytchforest yet, or were the Sylvan legions still keeping them at bay?

Once, briefly, Silwren’s voice had broken abruptly into his thoughts, but she’d said only that she was unharmed and that he must be patient. She counseled him not to attempt escape. Then she was silent. But at least Rowen knew she was alive.

But why doesn’t she get me out of here?
Frustrated, he stopped pacing long enough to deliver three powerful side kicks to the locked door. It caused an enormous racket and hurt his foot, but the door seemed unfazed. The guards outside offered no response. He wondered again why Silwren did not simply use her magic to liberate him from his prison and take him to see Loslandril, whether the king liked it or not. Surely, she could make them invisible, just as she had in Atheion.

But hours passed, and she neither appeared nor mindspoke with him again. He wished he could contact her himself, but from what little he understood of magic, it seemed that she could only read his thoughts when actively attempting to do so. So Rowen read, ate, paced, performed the sha’tala as best he could without a weapon
,
read more, drank wine, and tried his best to keep from going mad.

Finally, at sundown, he heard the great metallic fuss of his door being unlocked. He braced himself, and the door opened. Briel entered, gesturing for the scowling guards to stand down and wait outside. Briel closed the door behind him. The guards locked it again.

Briel wore his black fighting leathers, and a matching sword and dagger hung at his belt. A shortbow and quiver of arrows were strapped to his back. He was wearing fighting gloves. By the blue glow of the luminstone, Rowen saw something in the Sylv’s expression that frightened him. His anger slacked. “How close are the Olgrym?”

“A day,” Briel answered bluntly.

Rowen stared. “They made it—”

“Inside the forest. General Seravin’s whole force has been routed. Que’ahl was burned to the ground, along with every Wyldkin village and stronghold left on the plains. My captain is probably dead.” Briel blinked. “There are a few Shal’tiar
reserves stationed in the city. Loslandril refuses to flee. So we’re taking command of the capital’s defenses.” He paused, his face like stone. “I am not supposed to tell you any of this, but you’d guess it readily enough when you looked out your window and saw a few hundred Olgrym hacking their way toward you.”

Rowen shuddered. Somehow, he suspected that defending Shaffrilon’s broad, spiraling walkways would take priority over him. “Give me back my sword. I’ll fight with you. Gods, at least give me a way to defend myself!”

He saw Briel consider it before shaking his head. “Some commands must be followed, Human. I just wanted you to know what was happening. You deserved that much.” He turned to go.

“Briel, wait. This has gone on long enough. You have to let me see the king!”

“Human, there are thousands of Sylvs out there right now, dying to defend this realm. Do you really think one Knight of the Crane would make that big of a difference?”

“Not me—Silwren. You
need
her, Briel. She’s a Dragonkin—or near enough. Her magic could mean more than a hundred Sylvan fighters. If I can convince the king—”

“Silwren stays where she is. She’s lucky she’s even still alive. Nearly everyone who knows she’s here wants her dead. I’ve already had to disband a mob and replace six different guards who wanted to harm her. But Loslandril can deal with her when the fighting’s done.” He tightened his gloves. “Farewell, Human. The next time we meet, one of us will probably be a corpse.”

Briel knocked twice on the door, and the guards unlocked it. Rowen tensed. For one mad instant, he considered charging them and trying to fight his way out, but he changed his mind. Briel left. The guards scowled at him and locked him in again.

Rowen sighed.
The Olgrym will be here tomorrow…
He wondered where Jalist was. Part of him regretted sending the Dwarr away. He could have used an ally right then. Still, he hoped Jalist had managed to get far enough east before the Olgrym launched their latest round of offensives. He hoped his friend would reach his homeland and be reunited with his true love, though he was beginning to wonder if those kind of things happened outside of fairy tales. Rowen shook his head. Then, not for the first time, he searched his room for something he could use as a weapon.