Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Meyerhofer

Way.
    “Guess I won’t have to convince the Isle Knights.” He studied the remaining force. There couldn’t have been more than two dozen. If those others are attacking the Isle Knights, where are these going? He decided it made no difference. He had a plan.
    Descending the hill, he hurried westward. Three hours later, he watched from his hiding place in a copse of trees, heart racing, as the Jolym shambled past. He breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone. It would be easier to reach the coast now. From there, he could head south, skirting Stillhammer and the desert, and head into Quesh as he’d intended.
    Jalist continued to watch the smaller force of Jolym as they marched north, until they were out of sight. He had a good idea where they were going. He imagined what the Jolym would do once they reached Lyos.
    That’s Rowen’s city. He just risked his hide saving them from the Throng. Now, the Jolym will tear it to pieces.
    He’d been able to count the Jolym as they passed. Of the eighteen, most appeared to have been wrought entirely of iron, though three were blinding bronze. All the Jolym had blades in place of hands. Their dark eye sockets reminded him of cold charcoal.
    Jalist swore. Under other circumstances, he might have laughed at the thought of eighteen warriors doing much damage to a well-fortified city, but he’d already seen what the Jolym could do. Besides, he doubted anyone in Lyos knew the Jolym’s weakness, which he’d discovered by accident.
    I don’t have time for this. I have to find Rowen. And Leander.
    He rubbed his eyes. “And I’d appreciate a gods-damned nap and some breakfast!” But he realized he would get neither. Turning north, he set out at as fast a pace as he could manage.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Ripples

    C horlga slumped against the weathered stone of Namundvar’s Well. He shook from exhaustion, his eyes clenched tight. Still, he grinned. It had taken hours, but it was over. Even though he had not yet beheld the fruits of his victory, he’d done it. Even the mighty Nekiel had never dared to attempt such a feat.
    Of course, I had help.
    He almost laughed. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up and looked around. For a moment, he wished he were somewhere else—outside under the open sky or, better yet, under the cooling shade of wytchwood trees—rather than deep in the dank vaults of Cadavash, surrounded by dead dragonpriests. By the flickering glow of a hundred candelabra, he saw them littering the cold chamber floor all around him.
    Young and old, male and female alike, all the dragonpriests lay on their backs, eyes wide and mouths agape in expressions of ghastly euphoria. Though damp with sweat, their green robes showed no sign of injury. But Chorlga could sense the lingering psychic shadow of their last moments, their final screams of pain and triumph.
    He returned his attention to the task at hand: determining the whereabouts of the Dragonkin he’d just resurrected. Chorlga had hoped the dead man would simply materialize in Cadavash, right next to him. On more than one occasion, Chorlga had seen the freshly dead brought back to life by Dragonkin magic as a reward for valorous service.
    But this was different. There had been no body. The Nightmare had been dead for months. In order to keep his mind malleable, it had been necessary to resurrect him as he had been—powerful but mad. That added an element of unpredictability to his resurrection. He might very well emerge anywhere, belched out by the Light. Chorlga had always been warned against resurrecting anyone who had been dead for too long, lest they leave too much of themselves behind. The Nightmare might be even more unpredictable than before.
    Chorlga hoped he would not have to search the length and breadth of Ruun to find the Nightmare. Then again, the search would give him time to regain his strength and prepare himself for what was to come.
    Chorlga swept his gaze over the chamber again. Though it appeared