Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) by Michael Meyerhofer Page B
Authors: Michael Meyerhofer
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hand white-knuckled a wine pitcher, the contents of which sloshed over the pewter rim with her every other step. The other hand held a drawn knife. He would not have taken her for a priestess at all were it not for the silver emblem pinned to her clothes: a nude, androgynous figure holding a chalice, back turned to the viewer.
While followers of Dyoni could be irritatingly heavy drinkers, given what the woman must have seen at Hesod, Rowen could hardly blame her. Still, the other refugees were giving her a wide berth. He dismounted and led Snowdark by the reins, walking slowly until Haesha caught up with him. When she did not acknowledge his presence, Rowen cleared his throat.
Haesha answered by twisting on one heel and slashing at his face with her knife.
Rowen recoiled, narrowly avoiding a fresh scar. At the same time, Snowdark reared, and he almost lost hold of the reins.
“I’m in mourning,” she slurred. “These knees stay closed. Fuck your horse if you’re lonely.”
She tried to drink from her pitcher, spilled a mouthful of wine on her tunic, and stumbled. When Rowen drew closer, about to catch her, steel flashed at his face again. The tip of her knife slashed his tabard and sparked off his armor, leaving a bright scratch in his breastplate.
“Wait, I just want to—”
“Half the men in the midlands want the same thing. I don’t need a description.” She turned away, dropped her knife. She tried to pick it up, missed, spilled some wine on her trousers, cursed, then managed to retrieve her knife and leap to her feet in one oddly graceful motion. Seeing that he was still staring, she gave him a mocking curtsy and stumbled on.
“I’m not a midlander,” Rowen said, furiously inspecting the tear in his tabard. “I just want to talk. Matua said you might—”
At the mention of the Queshi priest, Haesha spat a string of obscenities.
Rowen recoiled, trying to keep his eyes on the blade flitting about in her hand. He was tempted to try to wrest it away from her before she cut herself, but he was not sure if it was worth the risk. Instead, he mounted his horse and gave her the same wide berth the others did. Some were trying not to snicker.
As he rode away, he heard Jalist in the distance, chuckling softly.
Rowen’s mood had not improved when Matua found him later.
The cleric, on the other hand, looked as though he were fighting back a grin as he said, “I heard you had a conversation with Haesha.”
Rowen had let a mother and child ride Snowdark while he traveled on foot. He’d done this not just out of generosity but also because he was tired of the priests’ and pilgrims’ snickering. Unlike the others, though, the Queshi priest seemed unamused.
“You could call it that.”
“Careful with that one, Knight. I should have warned you better. She’s a fetching sight, but so is a campfire. Only a fool would try to lay his hands on either.”
“Save your breath, Priest. The only way I plan on touching her is at the other end of a sword, if need be.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. She sleeps like a stone once she’s drunk enough. That’s why you didn’t hear her when you met us on the road. Good thing, too, or else you might have ridden on.”
I still might, Rowen thought, eyeing the scratch in his breastplate. The first dent in his armor had come not from battle but from a drunken priestess he had only been trying to help.
Irritated, he tugged at the straps securing his breastplate. Though his armor was made of kingsteel, lighter and stronger than most other armor on the continent, it still weighed on a man who was used to wearing nothing heavier than a brigandine. He had finally begun to grow accustomed to the weight, and he liked the respect it got him. However, the heat and straps still bothered him.
Once I get to Atheion, I’m going to pile it in the corner of some tavern room and let it gather dust while I gorge on that famous food and wine.
He chided himself. Do I
While followers of Dyoni could be irritatingly heavy drinkers, given what the woman must have seen at Hesod, Rowen could hardly blame her. Still, the other refugees were giving her a wide berth. He dismounted and led Snowdark by the reins, walking slowly until Haesha caught up with him. When she did not acknowledge his presence, Rowen cleared his throat.
Haesha answered by twisting on one heel and slashing at his face with her knife.
Rowen recoiled, narrowly avoiding a fresh scar. At the same time, Snowdark reared, and he almost lost hold of the reins.
“I’m in mourning,” she slurred. “These knees stay closed. Fuck your horse if you’re lonely.”
She tried to drink from her pitcher, spilled a mouthful of wine on her tunic, and stumbled. When Rowen drew closer, about to catch her, steel flashed at his face again. The tip of her knife slashed his tabard and sparked off his armor, leaving a bright scratch in his breastplate.
“Wait, I just want to—”
“Half the men in the midlands want the same thing. I don’t need a description.” She turned away, dropped her knife. She tried to pick it up, missed, spilled some wine on her trousers, cursed, then managed to retrieve her knife and leap to her feet in one oddly graceful motion. Seeing that he was still staring, she gave him a mocking curtsy and stumbled on.
“I’m not a midlander,” Rowen said, furiously inspecting the tear in his tabard. “I just want to talk. Matua said you might—”
At the mention of the Queshi priest, Haesha spat a string of obscenities.
Rowen recoiled, trying to keep his eyes on the blade flitting about in her hand. He was tempted to try to wrest it away from her before she cut herself, but he was not sure if it was worth the risk. Instead, he mounted his horse and gave her the same wide berth the others did. Some were trying not to snicker.
As he rode away, he heard Jalist in the distance, chuckling softly.
Rowen’s mood had not improved when Matua found him later.
The cleric, on the other hand, looked as though he were fighting back a grin as he said, “I heard you had a conversation with Haesha.”
Rowen had let a mother and child ride Snowdark while he traveled on foot. He’d done this not just out of generosity but also because he was tired of the priests’ and pilgrims’ snickering. Unlike the others, though, the Queshi priest seemed unamused.
“You could call it that.”
“Careful with that one, Knight. I should have warned you better. She’s a fetching sight, but so is a campfire. Only a fool would try to lay his hands on either.”
“Save your breath, Priest. The only way I plan on touching her is at the other end of a sword, if need be.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. She sleeps like a stone once she’s drunk enough. That’s why you didn’t hear her when you met us on the road. Good thing, too, or else you might have ridden on.”
I still might, Rowen thought, eyeing the scratch in his breastplate. The first dent in his armor had come not from battle but from a drunken priestess he had only been trying to help.
Irritated, he tugged at the straps securing his breastplate. Though his armor was made of kingsteel, lighter and stronger than most other armor on the continent, it still weighed on a man who was used to wearing nothing heavier than a brigandine. He had finally begun to grow accustomed to the weight, and he liked the respect it got him. However, the heat and straps still bothered him.
Once I get to Atheion, I’m going to pile it in the corner of some tavern room and let it gather dust while I gorge on that famous food and wine.
He chided himself. Do I
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