Her golden face went pale in the lantern light. She didn’t fight when the rope tightened, backing her to the mast. Instead she glanced at Andry. He expected to see the same terror he felt in his heart. But there was only cold resolve in Corayne an-Amarat.
“My blood is as much saltwater as it is Spindle,” she said, grim.
The squire wished he could say the same. Night pressed in from all sides of the ship, the lanterns a weak defense against the beast curling in the water.
“Sea serpent,” Andry managed to breath.
The ship rails bristled with armed sailors, their hooks and short ship swords brandished like needles. They peered at the water, ready for the next strike.
“Better than a kraken,” Valtik singsonged, dancing over the deck with her dirty bare feet. The full, cleaned skeleton of a fish dangled from her belt. “We are not forsaken.”
Sigil scowled. Her ax flashed. “Does she always do that?”
“Unfortunately,” Sorasa answered, stepping into the light of the mast lantern. Her bronze dagger leered. “Well, Witch. Immortal.” She glanced from Valtik to Dom. “Any suggestions?”
The old woman grinned toothily and tied herself in next to Corayne, looping rope over her wrists.
“Survive,” Dom answered, grave.
The assassin’s eyes rolled. “I don’t know which one of you is more useless.”
“Get some more lanterns lit; keep your eyes open,” Sigil called, her voice commanding. Though Andry knew little of the bounty hunter, her presence was familiar and calming, like one of the knights or instructors training him to the sword. She stalked to the rail as she barked orders, her boots hammering the deck. At the prow, the Larsian captain echoed them, his face gray with fear. “Captain Drageda—” she called in sudden warning.
Only to see the serpent’s great head rise up behind him, yellow eyes slitted, the sheen of sharp, white teeth in its jaws. It struck, devouring the captain headfirst before darting back into the safety of the water. Spears glanced off its scaled hide; hooks failed to find purchase. Only Dom’s sword broke the creature’s skin, drawing black blood that splattered the decks.
It rained, dark as oil, down the length of his steel.
“Run out the oars—we need to make for land!” one of the sailors shouted, his panic rising. A few others agreed, dropping their hooks in haste.
Andry gritted his teeth, the newly bought sword heavy at his hip. His hands shook as he drew it. He breathed heavily, trying not to think of the last time he’d raised a sword for battle. “Hold your ground!” he shouted, sounding bolder than he felt.
“Stow the oars—that thing will snap them like matchsticks!” Corayne roared, her voice so strong it caught even the sailors off guard. She strained against the ropes keeping her safe. “Use the sails but protect the masts at all costs!”
The sailors had no idea who Corayne was and were not inclined to obey a teenager on their ship. A few still ran for the hold and the oardeck, their boots sliding over the spray of seawater. It was Charlon who turned them back, blocking the way.
“You heard her,” he said, wagging an ink-stained finger.
Sigil’s eyes flashed, filling with light as lanterns flared all down the galley. “Defend the masts, men,” she snapped, all business.
The bounty hunter in armor, an ax tight in her fist, was more difficult to ignore than Corayne. She formed up first, putting her back to Corayne, letting Dom hold the opposite side. They moved in unison, circling slowly, their eyes on the darkness beyond the ship. Andry fell in without question. This he understood. The squire had trained all his life to fight side by side.
A dark shape crawled overhead and he jumped, startled, raising his sword only to find Sorasa clambering nimbly up the mast. She had a bow over her shoulder, a quiver of arrows dangling precariously from her hip. Her dagger flashed in her teeth, the sail snapping around her as the winds kicked up. She wasn’t bothered, nestling herself into the cross of the mast and yard.
The serpent returned in earnest, still bleeding as it looped over the ship in a graceful, terrible arc. Its eyes blazed, jaws wide as it crashed through the sailors on the opposite rail. Wood splintered and bones broke; hooks tore in vain at thick scales. Dom surged, sword raised with a battle cry of Iona. An arrow flew past him, close enough to ruffle his long hair. It needled into the serpent as it dove back into the water, taking two sailors with it, their weapons abandoned on the deck.
Andry wished for sunrise. Daylight. The blackness pushed in, no matter how many lanterns they lit along the ship. The serpent struck again and again, darting with its tail or diving up and over. The galley listed with each blow, threatening to topple over under the sheer force of the beast. Only the wind saved them, filling the sails with a gale that moved them forward, howling beneath the stars. It blew shudderingly cold.
The sailors dwindled, one by one, abandoning the rail to ring the main mast. The monster hissed at them, coiling once around the prow, threatening to snap it apart. It nearly got an arrow to the eye for the trouble and slipped away as Dom and Sigil charged, their weapons flashing in tandem. Andry followed, his muscles remembering how to fight even if his mind still could not believe what he fought.
The serpent was longer than the ship, thick around as an oak tree, spitting and bleeding and flooding the deck with seawater at every turn. Andry nearly lost his footing, and salt stung his eyes as he swung his sword, the scales passing just out of reach. His vision blurred but he kept his eyes open, narrowed to slits, as the beast wriggled up and over the ship. This time it came within snapping distance of Corayne, its fangs the length of her arm.
Charlie threw crate netting at the beast’s head, grunting as he did so. The serpent seemed to sneer, dodging the ropes, its tail lashing across the deck. Another part of the rail splintered under its force, and waves lapped over the deck, foaming white.
Without thought, Andry made for the gap in the rail, his clothes soaked through. But he never lost his grip on his sword.
A voice screamed his name but he didn’t stop, sliding into place to block the serpent’s retreat. Behind him, there was nothing but open air and the devouring waves.
The serpent fixed him with a glowing, yellow stare, its breath hissing between fangs. Its massive body coiled and turned on the deck, gathering to strike. Andry set his feet, though the deck was slick, his boots useless.
“With me,” he growled under his breath, meeting the horrific yellow gaze.
The ax and arrow struck in unison, the first at the neck, the second through one giant, lamp-like eye. The serpent’s scream was like nothing Andry had ever heard before. It shrieked as it writhed, both a wailing hurricane and an old woman.
Sigil hooted a cry of joy, wrenching her ax from the scales with an arc of black blood. She wasted no time striking again, cutting like a lumberjack hacking at a dead old tree.
Enraged, the serpent lashed with all its strength, its coiling body and tail undulating over the deck, knocking aside sailors and cargo, spilling both into the Long Sea. Andry froze as it whipped toward the mast with enough force to cut it in two.
Dom’s sword fell to the deck, splashing against the flooded planks, as the Elder moved with immortal swiftness, his arms stretched wide. He caught the snapping tail with a grunting roar, his teeth gnashing together as his boots scuffed over the deck. It was enough to save the mast, even as the serpent tightened, wrapping itself around the Ionian prince.
Corayne screamed, fighting against her ropes, reaching weakly for the immortal.
Arrows fell like shooting stars. They needled the serpent as Sorasa leapt to the deck, tossing aside her empty quiver. She danced toward the creature, bypassing every lash of its head. Her dagger cut with abandon, slicing lengthwise, opening a long gash in the monster’s throat.
Still it coiled and pulsed, until only Dom’s face could be seen, his teeth working in what could only be agony. A mortal would already have broken, and Dom was close to breaking.
Andry
ran, his sword flashing, the point level with the thickest part of the serpent. He aimed true, missing Dom’s body by inches as he plunged the sword to the hilt, through hard muscle and scale. On the other side, Sigil did the same, her ax working with blinding speed.
The coils loosened a little, the serpent bellowing, its blood pouring over the galley, the deck blacker than the night sky. Andry felt it, hot and gushing, as it spurted around his hands. He didn’t relinquish his grip, grunting as he worked the sword, trying to twist it, inflicting as much damage as possible.
The serpent lost its other eye to Sorasa’s dagger, its wail pitiful and keen. Dom snarled as the tight spirals of the monster fell away. Andry shoved at the scales, pushing them off the immortal, his arms caked in fresh blood.
“Thank you,” he heard the prince murmur, one hand pawing at his shoulder. Sorasa leapt to his side, coaxing the Elder to sit back on the deck.
Blind and torn apart, the serpent curled and shuddered, wailing a death song on the deck of the trader. The surviving sailors jeered, prodding it toward the broken rail. It flinched and slid, slower by the second.
“Get it off the ship,” Corayne called over the noise of the dying monster and the roaring wind. “Before it drags us down with it.”
Charlie braced his back against the meat of the beast, brave enough to push the still-breathing serpent. “A little help, please?” he snapped at the crew.
Together with Sigil, they eased the doomed creature into the sea. As soon as the serpent hit the waves, the wind guttered and died, the sail falling loose.
Andry collapsed to his knees, exhausted and stunned. The blood was still there, staining his clothes up to his waist. He took little notice, his breath coming in short gasps.
“Thank you,” Dom said again, breathless, lying back against the deck.
As soon as he was down, Sorasa stalked to the mast. The assassin loosed Corayne with a few cuts from her dagger. Corayne lunged forward, sliding to Andry’s shoulder, her hands shaking as she looked him over.
“I’m fine,” he murmured, sounding anything but.
Still willfully tied, Valtik cocked her head, leering around at the survivors. “Did anyone manage to grab a tooth?” she said, as if asking for a second mug of ale. “The fang of a serpent is poisoned in truth.”
No one had the strength or will to respond.
28
THE HIGHEST BIDDER
Corayne
Smashed rails on either side of the galley. Lost cargo. A dead captain, along with a dozen members of the crew. All in all, not so bad for a battle with a sea serpent.
Corayne assessed the damage with a keen eye before settling in with the ship’s navigator, who was now the de facto captain. The stout little man reminded her of Kastio. Together they charted a course to take advantage of the Strait’s winds and currents. Her fingers danced over the parchment maps spread out like a carpet. The sun glowed warm; the air was clean and full of salt. This was where she belonged.
Once again, Dom found himself among the injured, stripped to the waist, his torso a mess of black-and-blue bruises, patterned like scales. He made no sound as Sigil examined his chest, her fingers prodding for signs of internal bleeding. Sorasa loomed over the pair, a long welt down one side of her face from the serpent’s snapping tail. The Elder kept his mouth shut, but his annoyance was infinitely clear. Only a cup of tea from Andry’s kettle settled him somewhat, as the squire made his rounds, offering up the sweet-smelling brew to the sailors.
By the time night fell, they were ready with a watch crew, the ship swinging with lanterns. The darkness passed without incident, as did the following evening. Nothing else rose out of the deep, but everyone remained on edge, stealing glances at the waves.
No ship had ever been so relieved to spot the Crown Fleet of Ibal, the gallant warships spaced across the narrowest point of the Long Sea like teeth in a lion’s mouth. Their flags danced in the wind, royal blue and gold. The trader ran out its Larsian flag, a white bull on pale blue, and every sailor gave up a cheer or a wave.
Corayne did not share the sentiment. Instead she watched Charlie set the last touches to their papers of passage. The seals looked perfect: Tyriot aquamarine set with the warrior mermaid, her scales patterned in real gold ink. How Charlie had managed to draw up something so beautiful on the deck of a ship, Corayne could not say. She marveled at the diplomatic papers, letters to mark them as agents of a Tyri merchant company.
“Not my best work,” Charlie said, his teeth gritted as she peered over his shoulder. “It would be better to have some variety. You can pass for Ibalet or Ahmsarian, same as Sarn. But I didn’t have time to make a fresh seal.”
“These will do fine,” she answered. “What matters is the cut of our shoulders, not the cut of the seal.”
Never far away, Dom sidled up next to them, his focus on the horizon. His lips moved as he counted ships. “I am a prince of Iona,” he said, folding his arms. “Certainly that counts for something?”
Charlie had tact enough not to respond, in word or expression.
“The Crown Fleet is an impossible blockade to run without intricate planning or sheer luck,” Corayne answered. And while the crowns of the Ward might still marvel at Elders, the captain of a fleet ship would hardly care, let alone believe you exist at all. Her mother contended with the guardians of the Strait of the Ward every time she sailed west, and Corayne was careful to avoid complications. “Everyone who passes pays a toll of travel. Either your papers are good enough to warrant the usual price, or you have to scramble. Some captains can be bribed in a pinch, but there’s no telling which ship will meet you on the waves.”
They sailed on toward the fleet. One of the ships hung low in the water, heavier. Corayne felt her mother’s hunger flare in her chest. The fat, triple-masted galley squatted like a toad on a pond. It would be filled with coin and letters of promise, signed marks from well-known nobles, diplomats, or even royalty bound to pay the treasury at Qaliram. Meliz an-Amarat often fantasized about capturing a toll ship, but their voyages were heavily guarded. Too great a risk, even for such a prize.
Corayne’s heart pounded as an Ibalet ship sailed up alongside them, her deck crowded with fine sailors in light, airy silk the color of blue mist. They had no use for real armor, both on the waves and in the southern heat. Ibalet’s sailors were talented swimmers and swordsmen. Heavy plate would only slow them down. Like Sorasa’s, their swords and daggers shone bronze, gleaming in the daylight, an open show of strength.
The navigator met with the Ibalet captain, his purse and papers clutched in his fist. Judging by the way the navigator spoke, his hands curling and undulating in rolling paths, Corayne guessed he spoke of the serpent. It was enough to give the captain pause, and he barely rifled through their forged papers. He glanced over the crew still ragged from battle but did not linger. Not even for Sigil, clearly not of Tyri descent, nor Valtik, better suited to the grave than a trade vessel.
It only took a few moments to be on their way again, sailing for the Ibalet coast.
The grand city of Almasad followed.
Ibal was a land veiled in soft light, made hazy by the sun dipping in the west. The coast was green, lined with massive palm trees and succulent gardens, verdant as any forest of the north. Corayne marveled. The banks were thick with reeds and pale blue lotus along sandy beaches. A line of yellow glimmered on the horizon, where the dunes began. Villages and cities clung to the coastline, on cliffs or at the waterside, growing larger with every passing mile. Fishermen teemed in the shallows. Boats moved along the coast like carts upon a Cor road, ranging from war galleys to little skiffs poling through the shallows.
Then Almasad appeared out of the shimmering air, the port city fanning out on either side of the mighty Ziron. This wasn’t Ibal’s capital, but it was marvelous anyway, filled with sandstone monuments and gleaming pillars of limestone. The river was too wide for bridges, and barges crossed it like ants crawling back and forth. As Sorasa said, its c
othon put Ascal’s to shame. The circular docks for the navy was a city itself, walled and patrolled by sailors in water silks. Corayne tried to count the dozens of ships in port, but could hardly keep up with the many sails and glimmering flags of Ibal and her fleets.
Raised causeways ridged the city like the arms of a sunbeam, carrying both freshwater and travelers through the many sectors of Almasad. They were not like the ruins of Old Cor, broken and chipped away. The limestone gleamed white under the sun, bright as a shooting star. Palatial compounds, citadels, and paved plazas ran along either side of the riverbank, patterned in soft yellow, green, and bright blue. A royal palace sat on the only hill, surrounded by sandstone walls and towers tipped in winking silver. It looked down on the Ziron, its many windows and balconies empty. As Corayne knew, the royal court of Ibal was not here or even in the grander capital. They were farther south, in the mountains, hiding or biding their time. They know something is wrong, she thought, clenching her teeth.
Statues of ancient kings flanked the river, taller than a cathedral spire, their faces worn by the ages. The galley passed through their shadows, cast for thousands of years.
“Are those emperors?” Corayne said at the rail, looking on them with wonder. As in Siscaria, as in Galland, the ancient empire ruled here once. She searched their facades, looking for some hint of her father, of herself. But found none. “Old Cor?”
Sorasa leaned into the warm wind, looking at the water, not the bank. “Do those look like northern conquerors to you?” she said with a proud smile.
Indeed, the statues did not, their features and clothing different from any emperor across the Long Sea. Each sat astride a fine stallion, with a cloak of patterned silk and peacock feathers. They looked more like my mother, Corayne thought, seeing the same lips and cheekbones.
Leaning into the warm breeze, Sorasa straightened her spine. Whatever fear she felt at returning to her home seemed to disappear. “Ibal was born before Cor and still lives long after it died.”
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