Free Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Meyerhofer Page A

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    He’d happened to encounter the youngest of Karhaati’s brothers right before leaving Cassica. Fat, not a single pair of ears around his neck, Prince Saanji had ridden through the gates at the same time as Vaanti—not to see him off but to break up a squad of Dhargothi warriors who had just begun their nightly celebrations by savaging some wives and daughters in full view of their impaled husbands.
    Vaanti shook his head with disgust. Prince Saanji had no respect for the traditions and terror that had made the Dhargothi Empire what it was. Everyone knew that if Saanji had his way, the glorious empire would abandon the practices that kept their enemies at bay. It would fall practically overnight.
    Vaanti took another drink of wine, but the sweetness overwhelmed him, and he spat it out. He liked how the wine looked like blood on the snow. Tipping the bottle, he poured out a little more, laughed, then returned the bottle to his lips. He forced himself to swallow.
    “The Bloody Prince should have killed him already,” he muttered. Of course, he knew why Saanji was still alive. Karhaati was the most powerful of the three princes, but he still had his brother, Ziraari, to deal with—not to mention the Red Emperor himself. Saanji’s impalement would come, as it would for all those Earless who rejected the true Dhargothi way, but for now, they could still be useful.
    Especially if that damn Lancer keeps winning battles.
    Vaanti shook his head. For weeks, Karhaati’s forces had enjoyed regular, bloody incursions into Ivairia, burning villages and raiding monasteries, killing and pleasuring without hindrance. Though Ivairia had little value compared to the Free Cities, rumor had it that the Ivairian king had ordered his Lancers not to fight back, to withdraw farther north so that they could protect him.
    Lately, though, a company of Lancers had been defying their own king, boldly attacking Karhaati’s larger forces at every turn. And they were winning. No one knew who was leading them, but Vaanti resolved that if he ever met the man, his impalement would be preceded by the slow removal of his skin.
    Vaanti smiled. He guzzled the last of the bottle’s saccharine contents then threw it against a tree and watched it shatter. His horse jerked, but Vaanti raked its flanks with his spurs, urging it to a full gallop. He was tired of snow and tired of riding. He wanted to get back to Cassica as quickly as possible, even if he had to ride his horse to death.
    The night air tore at his face, but Vaanti laughed. Drawing his sword, he whirled it over his head. He imagined he was riding down on some helpless Ivairian village, as frightening as Fohl himself, a whole army of Dhargothi brothers behind him. Then he reined in.
    Before him, on the snowy plains, lay a body, facedown in the snow.
    He had not seen it during his ride south from Cassica, though the way the man’s tattered white cloak melted into the snow, it would have been easy to miss. Vaanti dismounted his horse, wobbled unsteadily, then trudged ahead to investigate. Sheathing his sword, he reached for his daggers. He cursed when he realized one was missing. He wondered if he’d lost it in the ride. He drew the other.
    Drawing closer, he saw splotches of blood all over the man’s cloak, partially obscured by the snow. Vaanti rolled him over, then he leapt back.
    The man looked young, his face contorted with pain, but it was his eyes that shook Vaanti to the bone: violet eyes with white pupils. Vaanti swore and signed himself. He looked at the man’s tattered cloak again. What he had first mistaken for bloodstains were, in fact, wolves sewn in red thread.
    “A Shel’ai…”
    Though the man already appeared to be dead, Vaanti considered stabbing him just to make sure. He considered the possibility that the Shel’ai was merely asleep and might wake up long enough before dying to burn Vaanti to cinders. Vaanti took another step back.
    But aren’t the Shel’ai the