Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free

In time, he woke to the splintering sound of the guards breaking down the door. Loslandril sat up. Pain screamed through him. He heard his son crying in the distance, but for a moment, all he could do was stare in horror at what had been done to him.
    From collarbone to crotch, his flesh was blistered and seeping. Shaking with agony, he forced himself to rise. He grasped his robe and tied it shut, wincing as the soft fabric pressed into his wounds. Then he went to retrieve his son—just as the door shattered and his guards rushed in.
    With strength Loslandril did not know he had, he composed himself and stilled them with a ferocious look. He held his son before him, hoping Quivalen’s small body would conceal the blood and pus already seeping through his dark robe. He ordered the guards to leave and said he had only been sitting on the terrace and had nodded off after too much nightwine. As an afterthought, he turned Quivalen toward them, letting them see his blue, wet eyes.
    The guards exchanged looks then left him alone. Closing the broken door behind them, they promised he would not be disturbed until morning. Loslandril waited, fighting to keep his composure. When they were gone, he crumpled. Reeling with pain, he returned Quivalen to his bassinet and stumbled to his bed. He lay down in agony, biting the sheets to keep from screaming. He wished he’d had nightwine, after all, though he doubted all the wine in Sylvos could have eased his pain.
    In time, he slept. When he woke, he approached Quivalen and found his son staring up with clear, blue eyes. Loslandril touched his chest through his robe. The pain had slackened. Loslandril wept, though he could not say for certain why. He gathered his courage and opened his robe. The wounds had closed and healed, as though it had been months since Chorlga touched him. Still, ghastly scars raked his torso, leaving a reminder, accompanied by a dull ache, of whatever bargain he had struck and a warning of what would happen if he disobeyed.
    Fifty years later, he still felt it.

Chapter One
    Thunderheads

    R owen reined in his horse, scowling at the approaching thunderheads. Though it was only midday, the grassy horizon to the west had taken on a blue-black stain reminiscent of twilight. Rowen glanced back at the two figures riding with him. “So much for luck.”
    Jalist laughed, though his faintly gray, Dwarrish skin made it look as though the storm had already hidden the sun. “Locke, when in all the hells have we experienced anything akin to luck?”
    A distant rumble unsettled Rowen’s horse, a piebald palfrey he had taken from the stables of Lyos. He patted the horse’s neck. “Easy, Snowdark. It’s just thunder.”
    Jalist urged his own horse up alongside Rowen’s. “You know, that’s a silly name for a horse. Besides, aren’t Knights of the Crane supposed to ride big solid-colored destriers?”
    Rowen shrugged, resisting the impulse to smooth the azure tabard hanging over his new kingsteel cuirass. Though his armor was light and well fitting, it still chafed him. “I’ve been an Isle Knight for barely a week, and already, that’s probably the least of my transgressions.”
    The Dwarr glanced down at the sword Rowen was carrying. “True enough.”
    A week, Rowen thought, surprised that it had been that long. Lyos had fallen far behind them. Unbelievably, it seemed they had not been followed. Then again, if the Shel’ai wanted him dead, he doubted he would see them coming. The Shel’ai were not even his most pressing concern at the moment. He glanced down at his azure tabard, eyeing the emblem of a balancing crane. Then he touched the exquisite dragonbone hilt of his sword. It seemed faintly warm to the touch, as though alive.
    By now, most of the Knighthood surely knew that he’d fled Lyos with Knightswrath, the long-lost sword of Fâyu Jinn. They would hunt him. They would catch him. They would rescind his Knighthood. They would call him a traitor, possibly