Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) by Michael Meyerhofer

daunting and mostly useless. Some priests refused the weapons, claiming that even holding them betrayed their vows. Others accepted them, only to use them as walking sticks. None save Matua seemed to have any idea how to use them. As they set out, Rowen even saw a few of his meticulously crafted, fire-hardened spears simply cast aside, abandoned in the grassy plains. Silwren watched, always from a distance, and said nothing. But her stern, unblinking gaze made her disapproval clear.
    That was only the beginning. The ragtag group rose late, traveled slowly, and stopped often. Though they had a handful of horses, all were laden with supplies and required almost as much coaxing as their masters did. Children cried. The old took only two steps for his three. Many seemed to breathe in air only to exhale complaints.
    Rowen seethed, trying to conceal his mounting frustration. He’d offered to escort these people without first consulting Jalist or Silwren, thinking that the loss of a couple days would not seriously hinder them. In fact, if they traveled south around the valley, they could reach the Wytchforest and avoid the Dhargots entirely. But with every delay, he imagined his enemies—Dhargots, Lochurites, Shel’ai, and Isle Knights—drawing closer.
    Jalist appeared next to him. “Well, Sir Locke, what did you expect? Remember that Ivairian merchant we helped escort a few years back? He insisted on bringing his wife, his servants, his concubines, his legitimate children, and, what, a half dozen bastards?”
    “I’d nearly forgotten. This bunch isn’t that bad, though.”
    “You’re right. They’re worse. If we get killed doing this, I’m blaming you.” The Dwarr kept a wary eye on their surroundings—plains, a few rocky hills, and a distant crescent of mountains—his long axe always in hand.
    “We won’t. Even if we’re attacked, we have Silwren.”
    “Then why did you waste all that time carving spears?”
    “Just a precaution, and one we probably won’t need. We’re well into the valley now. The Noshans must be patrolling these lands.”
    “Ah, yes. The brave Noshan warriors. There’s some of them now.” Jalist pointed to a distant rise, where three shepherds were tending a flock. One of them waved. Jalist waved back. “We’re doomed.”
    “Don’t worry. We’ll be in Atheion by nightfall.”
    “And will we find the streets turned to wine and the rooftops to strawberries when we get there? At this pace, we’ll be lucky to get there before winter!” Jalist glanced over his shoulder, scouring the priests and pilgrims with a murderous stare.
    Jalist had a point. Rowen sighed and went to talk to Matua. Trying to smile to soften what he was sure was an unmistakable edge in his voice, Rowen said, “Forgive me, Father, but we must quicken our pace.”
    The disheveled cleric nodded, unsurprised. “I agree. In fact, I have been praying for that at least five times a day for two weeks now. So far, Armahg has declined to answer.”
    Rowen had already had his fill of sarcasm from Jalist and did not need it from the cleric as well. He took in their surroundings. They had a good clear view for miles. Aside from the occasional drover, the land seemed sparsely inhabited. In fact, were it not for Matua’s tale, he might have thought this realm as safe and uneventful as any.
    “If we are attacked, lead the group onward. We’ll deal with the Lochurites.”
    “And you’ll be welcome to them. But I doubt you’ll dampen your sword here, Sir Locke. These Lochurites aren’t an army. They rove in gangs of three or four. If they see you and your friend, armed and armored, I’m sure that’ll keep them away.”
    “Just the same, make sure everyone stays together. Even if someone has to relieve themselves, they shouldn’t go alone. Modesty’s not worth dying for.”
    “Tell that to Haesha.” Matua added, “She’s the young priestess of Dyoni.”
    Rowen scowled. “So far as I can tell, Priest, everyone in