Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (45 page)

Rowen shook his head. “I should be there when the Lancer kills the Bloody Prince. Besides, I’m not sure sleep would help me.”

“Fine,” Jalist said. “We’ll watch the Dhargot die, then while the rest of the city is tearing itself in two, you can sleep. I’ll bring you sweet rolls and warm milk and tell you a gods-damned bedtime story, if you like.”

Rowen half smiled. “You don’t need to play nursemaid, my friend. Go be with your prince.”

Jalist blushed. “I already told you—”

A trumpet peal ripped through the morning air. Jalist swore, but Aeko said, “That’s Ivairian. Sounds like the Lancer doesn’t like to waste time.”

“Good,” Jalist mumbled. He cast a sidelong glance at Rowen. All three exited the tent together. Though Rowen tried to walk ahead of his companions, both hurried so that they stayed on each side of him.

Karhaati stood on the battlements overlooking the little-used eastern gates and stared at the impossible. An army of Lancers and renegade Dhargots unfurled across the snowy plains, as he had already anticipated it would, but they were not alone. A seemingly endless line of lean, bronze-skinned archers on red horses followed them, accompanied by a tight knot of women in mismatched armor, plus an even stranger sight: at least two hundred stout, Dwarrish Housecarls in gleaming ringmail. And here and there rode Isle Knights in azure and kingsteel.

The Dhargots manning the battlements began to speak in fearful whispers and point, but Karhaati laughed. “It seems the whole continent has decided to show us what their blood looks like frozen in the ice. So be it.”

He was about to issue commands to his archers when Dagath pointed. A single Lancer was moving ahead of the army, trudging on foot through the snow, toward the eastern gate. Though his full armor looked identical in design to the other Lancers’, it had been gilded with golden scrollwork. The Lancer stood in the snow, staring up at the battlements, so still that Karhaati might have mistaken him for a Jol.

Karhaati’s pulse quickened.
Does he mean to—

“Want us to fill him with arrows?” Dagath asked. His voice rumbled with anger. The sellsword’s good eye was bloodshot, as though he had not slept. Nevertheless, he plucked a crossbow from a Dhargot’s hands, spanned it, and reached for a bolt.

“No,” Karhaati said. “Don’t spoil it. Something tells me this is going to be quite interesting.”

For a long time, the Lancer stood, unmoving and defiant. Finally, he reached up, removed his helmet, and dropped it into the snow. In a deep, booming voice, he shouted up at the battlements. “I am Arnil Royce, First Lancer to the King of Ivairia. I have come to challenge Karhaati, also called the Bloody Prince, to come forth and answer for the crimes done against my people.” He paused. “If he has the courage, let him arm himself and step out. Let him meet me, so that all may watch him die.”

Heavy silence fell over the battlements. Karhaati felt the weight of thousands of eyes turning to look at him, awaiting his response.
Is this it… my good death?
He laughed again. Then he shrugged off his cloak. “So be it,” he said again. He turned to Dagath. “Remember your vow, Sellsword. If I die, kill the red-haired woman. Make it quick.”

Dagath’s good eye narrowed. “I remember. But… begging your pardon, Prince, I’ve heard of this one. They say he’s Fohl’s own mistress with a blade. Maybe he’s—”

Karhaati ignored the rest. He touched the dark braid tucked into his belt. Then he removed the braid, tucked it under the neck of his cuirass, and removed each of his swordbelts. He handed his matching shortswords to Dagath. He gave him his thick, heavy necklace of dried ears as well. As much as Karhaati enjoyed wearing it in battle, knowing the sight of it could intimidate his opponents, it could also be an encumbrance. Besides, something told him that
this
opponent would not be so easily intimidated.

“Bring me Widowswail,” he said.

A slave stepped forward and offered him a plain, ancient-looking bastard sword wrapped in dark silk. He took it by its black pommel, admiring the black pearls inlaid in the crosspiece, and drew it. Ghastly scrollwork covered the blade, depicting graphic acts of murder and rapine.

“The Lancer is mine. Let no one interfere,” he told his archers. Leaning over the battlements, he stretched out his arm. Slowly, he lowered Widowswail until its tip pointed at the Lancer. The Lancer stared back, unmoving.

“Be right down,” Karhaati called. As he descended from the battlements and ordered his men to open the city gates, he realized that he might have said the same thing to Fohl, the Undergod, and the ghosts of all the men he’d killed, roiling somewhere in the dark earth.

Saanji tugged at his cuirass, certain that his armor had somehow shrunk and was attempting to suffocate him. “Gods, get this over with,” he muttered. Though he stood at the head of the army, surrounded by Earless, he was torn between striding ahead to be closer to Arnil Royce and retreating back into the ranks so that his brother would not see him.

He’d already been relieved when the Dhargots had not tried to kill Royce with arrows the moment he stepped within range. Lancers on horseback, carrying massive tower-shields, had been ready to race in and protect him with their own lives. Now the First Lancer stood, stock still, waiting to see if the challenge would be answered.

Saanji wished Royce had decided to issue his challenge from horseback, lance in hand, though he understood that not everyone would have viewed that as honorable. The Ivairians were unquestionably better at fighting on horseback, so much so that Karhaati might have simply used Royce as target practice for his crossbowmen.

He thought of the suggestion that Haesha had offered in a conspiratorial whisper outside the tent: that the moment the Bloody Prince emerged from the protection of the city walls, they could erase him with a hail of arrows fired by the powerful composite bows of the Queshi. Saanji had refused. He knew enough about the Queshi to know that they would never agree to such a thing, either.

Besides, Royce would never forgive me for that. And I can’t fight this war without him.

As the minutes passed without answer, Saanji wondered if his brother was still asleep or just busy tormenting some poor innocent subject elsewhere in the city. Then he spotted a single armored Dhargot gesture from the battlements. A moment later, the city gates rumbled open.

Saanji’s stomach twisted. He fixed his gaze on Royce. “Finish it, my friend.” As he stood at the head of a crowding host of onlookers, he began to pray, touching the little opal ring still hanging around his neck.

Rowen stood at the front of the host, next to Jalist and Aeko. As the duel began, the Lancers and the Earless cheered, thousands upon thousands adding their voices to a growing chorus in the chilly air. His throat tightened.

The Dhargot who emerged from the gates of Hesod towered over the Lancer. He swung his blade with the lazy contempt of a swordmaster. His size and derisive stride instantly reminded Rowen of Jaanti, the fearsome Dhargot he’d fought in a village outside Atheion. That Dhargot had almost killed him. Rowen’s victory had been chance as much as anything. Jaanti had simply underestimated him and toyed with him for too long.

Rowen blinked away his weariness and glanced at Jalist. The Dwarr looked back, his dark eyes narrowing. Rowen wondered if they were thinking the same thing. But Rowen had glimpsed Royce’s expression while the army was still massing just beyond bow-shot, before he strode ahead to issue his challenge. The First Lancer looked deadly serious. Surely, he knew what was at stake. He would not be foolish enough to toy with an opponent as dangerous as the Bloody Prince.

And Royce’s men love him,
Rowen thought, listening to the cheers.
What if Knightswrath had passed to him instead of me?
He shook off the thought and returned his attention to the battle.

A kingsteel bastard sword gleamed in Royce’s hands. Somehow, despite the snow and the weight of his armor, the Lancer moved like a dancer. He dodged Karhaati’s powerful swings with apparent ease and jabbed at the Bloody Prince’s armor, leaving dents and bright scratches all over the darkened steel.

The Bloody Prince’s frustration grew. He shouted curses and insults as he swung. Each time the Lancer retreated, the Bloody Prince chased after him, swinging wildly.

“He’s got to get tired soon,” Jalist said.

But the Bloody Prince seemed inexhaustible. He gouged a dent in Royce’s breastplate that made thousands of onlookers gasp in unison, but Royce recovered in the blink of an eye and nearly cut off Karhaati’s head before the Bloody Prince beat him back.

The two swordsmen paused a moment. Dhargots shouted encouragement and jeered at Royce from the walls, though the Lancer seemed oblivious to everything but his opponent. The Lancer stooped, his kingsteel sword held low, as though it were him and not the Bloody Prince who was beginning to tire. Then he leapt forward.

A blur of steel, faster than should have been possible, he danced around his startled opponent, moving first one way, then the other. His kingsteel sword rang off Karhaati’s armor again and again. Sparks rained on the snowy earth. Blood followed. The Lancers’ cheers became deafening. The Earless cheered, too. Rowen turned and saw Saanji cupping his hands around his mouth, his eyes wide.

Despite his distance, Rowen could see the Bloody Prince’s eyes widen, too, though for obviously different reasons. Blood trickled from the gaps in Karhaati’s armor. Again and again, he tried unsuccessfully to get away from the stinging blur that was Arnil Royce. Then he stumbled over something—Royce’s helmet, left in the snow—and reeled backward.

Surely, he already knew that was there…
“No,” Rowen muttered, though no one heard him.

Rather than allow the Bloody Prince a chance to recover, Royce leapt forward. The tip of his kingsteel blade lunged for Karhaati’s exposed face. Karhaati was looking down. But somehow, he knew exactly where Royce’s sword was going to be. One gauntleted fist caught the blade and jerked it sideways. The Dhargot’s sword blurred.

Royce crumpled. Blood streamed down his armor at the elbow. But he did not cry out. Instead, he lifted his arm to fend off Karhaati’s next blow. Meanwhile, he tried to twist his own sword free. But Karhaati held on, even as blood streamed from his fist. Karhaati laughed. He swung again then again.

In the blink of an eye, onlookers on both sides went deathly quiet. The sound of ringing steel and Karhaati’s laughing grunts echoed in the morning air. Jalist shouted, “Gods, let go of the sword!”

Royce finally surrendered his weapon. With a bestial growl that betrayed no sign of injury, he launched himself at his bigger opponent. The Lancer reached for the Bloody Prince’s face. Momentarily holding both men’s swords, Karhaati stumbled backward, stunned by the smaller man’s ferocity. He let go of Royce’s sword. As the kingsteel blade fell into the snow, the Bloody Prince used his free hand to shield his face from the gauntleted fingers clawing for his eyes. He brought the pommel of his sword crashing down.

Royce suffered the first two blows to the head without acknowledgment. At the third, he stiffened. He stood at a half crouch in the snow, hands still raised, as though frozen. Karhaati took a step backward. He took a breath, gripped his own sword with both hands, and split open Royce’s head.

Rowen felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then all along the battlements of Hesod, the Dhargots cheered. The Bloody Prince jerked, as though hearing them for the first time, then turned. He waved at them with his bloody sword. He turned back to his opponent. Reaching behind his back, he drew a knife. He knelt.

The Lancers’ cries of despair became howls of rage. Dozens started forward, steel drawn, but it was too late. The Bloody Prince held up Royce’s ears. He blinked, unafraid, at the charging host. All along the battlements, crossbows shuddered. Hundreds of bolts thudded into the snow, forming a line between the Bloody Prince and the vengeful Lancers.

Rowen heard Saanji’s voice shouting over the din, ordering the men back. The renegade Dhargothi prince had his own sword drawn, his face deathly pale as he shouted commands. A moment later, the din quieted.