Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Over the parapet. Karmel shook her head. She couldn’t believe she was even considering this.

  A last look down at the strait. The waters of the channel heaved and pitched like a storm-tossed sea, but at least they were empty of dragons for now.

  Putting a foot in one of the crenels, Karmel closed her eyes and jumped.

  PART III

  THE DRAGON HUNT

  CHAPTER 13

  AS THE wave of water-magic bore down on the Icewing, Agenta wrapped her arms round the mainmast. From all sides came shouts to jump, shouts to hold on to something, shouts to turn the ship about to face the wave. Then one by one those shouts were drowned beneath the roar of onrushing water. The wave grew in height, rising above the level of the main yard. Its coming was like the roll of a thousand drums, and it brought with it a darkness as if dusk lay in its wake.

  Farrell stepped round to the opposite side of the mast from Agenta and gripped it as she had. His face was chalk white. A Storm Guard behind the kalischa put his arms round her so he too could grasp the mast, and she was crushed against the wood. To either side she saw soldiers seizing the ship’s backstays and lower shrouds, or diving for the companionway. The companionway. Why hadn’t Agenta thought of that herself? There was no chance of reaching it now, though, for the wave was rumbling ever closer—forty armspans, thirty, twenty. On the sea in its path a floating starbeak realized its danger too late and took off squawking, only to be snatched up and devoured. The water off the Icewing’s port rail receded, and the vessel slid down into a dip before rising again.

  Agenta braced for impact.

  The wave caught the ship beam-on. It tipped to starboard. The mainmast shuddered, and the kalischa felt as much as heard the wood snap above her. Then the sea’s chill embrace claimed her. The roar of the wave was replaced by ringing silence. In the watery gloom Farrell’s eyes were bulging like he’d forgotten to take a breath, while behind her the Storm Guard was torn away. Agenta tightened her grip as the Icewing pitched and rolled. For a heartbeat she didn’t know if the ship was still fighting the pull of the wave or already sinking, and it occurred to her that she might be clinging to the vessel even as it was hauled down into the deep. The image made her snort with laughter, and a bubble of air escaped her nose.

  Then as quickly as the surge had come, it was gone.

  Agenta felt the wind against her face once more. She took in a heaving breath. Farrell stood across from her, his pink shirt plastered to his chest, his eyes dull with shock. Somehow the Icewing was still afloat, though all three of its masts were broken and now floated in the sea off the starboard rail amid a tangle of sails and rigging. The wave of water-magic had moved on to the south where it struck the cliffs with a noise like a peal of thunder, sending spray fountaining into the air and dislodging starbeaks from their perches. In its wake the sea gushed and swirled.

  Agenta looked east to see that, of the ships taking part in the Hunt, only the Icewing had been hit by the wave.

  And suddenly it all became clear: why Imerle had stayed away from the Hunt; why Agenta and her father had been invited on board; why the Icewing had taken up a position so far to the west of Dian where there would be fewer witnesses to the emira’s treachery—for the wave had surely been conjured up by Orsan at Imerle’s command to leave the Icewing crippled beyond any hope of escaping this place. It also made sense why Farrell and his father were here, for with Lydanto on the merchants’ trail the emira must have decided to dispose of them before that trail could be followed to her.

  And to think Agenta had believed it was Imerle who’d been outwitted.

  Farrell spoke. “The wave. It’s coming back.”

  The kalischa looked south to see the water had rebounded off the cliffs and was surging back toward the Icewing. Much of its force had been spent against the rock face, and when it reached the ship it did no more than lift the vessel into the air before setting it back down. Agenta’s stomach rose and fell with the wave. Scanning the ship, she saw the main deck and the quarterdeck had been swept clear of all but a handful of Storm Guards. On the aft deck two soldiers manned the ballista, and around them stood half a dozen bedraggled dignitaries. Lydanto was there, still clutching a glass in one hand. The glass was now filled not with wine but with seawater, yet he couldn’t have realized because he raised it to his lips.

  Agenta tensed. Where was her father?

  She scanned the passengers on the aft deck, but Rethell was not among them. She shifted her gaze to the sea. Most of the people who’d been swept overboard were on the starboard side of the ship. Some had been carried halfway to shore and were now swimming back to the Icewing; some were treading water beside the shattered masts; others floated facedown in the waves or stared sightlessly up at the sky. But there was no sign of Rethell.

  Agenta forced herself to take a steadying breath. Could he be in the sea off the bow or the stern, hidden from view by the aft deck or the forecastle? Or under one of the sails, perhaps—she could see shapes moving beneath the canvas. Even now a gash appeared in the main course as a Storm Guard used a knife to cut himself free.

  “Father!” Agenta called.

  No response.

  She crossed to the port rail. To the north and east, the Majestic was under attack from the bronze- and steel-scaled dragons she’d seen earlier, and in the span of Agenta’s gaze she saw the bronze beast rear up and snap the bowsprit before a wave of water-magic—fashioned by Cauroy, no doubt—slapped the creature down. Farther west, and a stone’s throw from the Icewing, the fat air-mage, Selis, hovered above the sea. He must have lifted himself out of harm’s way before the wave struck, and only now did Agenta appreciate how far the ship had been carried shoreward. Below Selis bobbed the motionless body of a Storm Guard, while another soldier was trying to clamber onto a barrel of sorcerously lightened air that had been knocked off the aft deck.

  Behind the man a silver shadow rose from the depths.

  “Sender’s mercy!” Agenta said.

  She’d forgotten the dragon. The waves swelled and burst as the creature’s head broke the surface. The sound of splashing must have alerted the Storm Guard to its presence for he looked over his shoulder. With a cry he abandoned the barrel and began thrashing toward the Icewing as if he believed he could outpace the beast. Perhaps Agenta should have been appalled at his plight, but all she felt was relief that it was him in the dragon’s way and not her.

  Or her father.

  Swift as thought, the dragon closed the gap on the soldier, its jaws hinging wide.

  But its target was not the Storm Guard. It swept past him and came for the Icewing. From the quarterdeck a lone arrow flew out to intercept it, and it disappeared into the creature’s yawning maw. The missile could not have been invested with sorcery, for no explosion issued from within. The dragon let out a deep-throated growl. Lowering its head to butt the ship, it came on faster and more terrible than any battering ram. Sprouting from the top of its head were curved horns.

  Two pikemen ran to the port rail to meet its charge. Resting their pikes on the wood, they angled the weapon heads down. The first pike deflected off the dragon’s armor. The second found a gap between two scales and buried itself in the creature’s flesh.

  The dragon trumpeted.

  The soldier holding the pike was driven back across the boards. As the dragon’s head came up, the pike lodged in its flesh came up with it. The weapon’s shaft was braced under the Storm Guard’s arm, and Agenta watched openmouthed as he was lifted into the air and flung, shrieking, over the dragon’s shoulder. The creature’s momentum, meanwhile, carried it into the hull. To the sound of crunching wood the deck beneath Agenta tilted, and she grabbed the stump of the mainmast. An archer near the starboard rail stumbled against the gunwale before toppling into the sea.

  The dragon backed away from the Icewing. The pike was still wedged in its skull, and the beast shook its head in an effort to free the weapon. With every twist, the scales across its neck rasped agains
t each other, opening up gaps between them. If Agenta had been holding a bow with an arrow nocked to it …

  She hesitated. Her first instinct was to climb to the aft deck and search the seas off the stern for her father. If he had been knocked overboard, though, the best way to help him was to drive the dragon away, or at least keep its attention focused on the Icewing long enough for him to make it back on board. She looked round. The weapons rack on the quarterdeck was empty of bows, but on one of the still-stacked spears was impaled the body of a Storm Guard. In the soldier’s left hand he clutched a bow. Agenta scampered across and prized the weapon from his fingers. His quiver had some arrows in it, including three with white shafts. The kalischa looped the quiver off his shoulder before returning to the mainmast.

  Farrell had vanished, but there was no time to look for him now. To Agenta’s right an octa had gathered four archers to him as the remaining pikeman moved to stand in the dragon’s shadow. The creature had succeeded in dislodging the pike from its flesh, and its head now swayed above the soldier as if it were a bedra cobra mesmerizing its prey.

  A twang sounded from the trebuchet on the aft deck. A bolt ricocheted off the dragon’s scaled neck, but the creature paid it no mind. Its teeth snapped at the pikeman’s weapon. The Storm Guard pulled the pike back, then jabbed for an eye, the weapon head coming up short.

  “Fire!” the octa shouted.

  Four arrows flew out.

  The dragon’s armored eyelids snapped shut, and the missiles pinged off.

  Agenta grabbed the first arrow in her quiver that her fingers closed round—a nonmagical one—and nocked it to her bow before pulling back on the string. There were no longer any gaps visible between the plates on the dragon’s neck, but its nostrils made for inviting targets. At a distance of forty armspans she could hardly miss. Her arrow flew true to its mark, and the creature flinched and growled, its eyes springing open.

  Its head swung round.

  And suddenly its attention was fixed not on the pikeman but on the kalischa.

  She stood frozen. The beast seemed too big to be real, yet what had Farrell called it? A baby. Come to Mummy, Agenta thought, making ready to duck behind the mainmast.

  Then jets of water spurted from the dragon’s nostrils, hitting her and spinning her from her feet.

  * * *

  The stink of rotting fish met Karmel as she hauled herself into Veran’s boat. There were several fingers’ widths of water in the bottom, but she was too tired to start bailing, and for a while she lay in the wet looking up at the roof of the cave and listening to the waves lapping at the hull. The boat drifted round, pulling against its anchor.

  After jumping from the battlements she’d plunged into the murky waters of the strait before resurfacing amid clinking bottles and strands of fireweed. She’d made for the recess in the cliff intending to wait there for Veran, but before she could reach it a wave created by a dragon’s approach had picked her up and carried her clear of the strait. Close behind the wave came the dragon itself, submerged beneath the bulging blue. By stilling her movements Karmel had made herself invisible to the creature, but even so she was forced to endure twenty of the longest heartbeats of her life as it glided beneath her in a dazzle of scales. Only when it vanished to the north did she kick for the Dianese cliffs, watching the strait all the while in case another dragon appeared.

  As she drew near to the cliff her knees scraped against submerged rocks. Clinging to the stones, she stared up at the battlements to see the stranger with the broadsword battling a handful of uniformed men. Veran was not among them, though, nor was there any sign of him in the turbulent waters beneath the gate. He could have jumped already and now be sheltering in the recess, Karmel supposed, but she wasn’t going to swim back against the tide of dragons to find out. Having resolved to give him a count of a fifty, she’d reached only half that number when a second dragon surged past, the swell of its passage almost tugging her from her perch. Suspecting it was just a matter of time before one of the creatures detected her—she didn’t know, after all, whether dragons hunted by sight or smell—she began making her way west toward the cave where she and Veran had left the boat two days ago. If the priest was still alive, he would find his way there eventually. If not …

  Karmel shivered. The air in the cave was cold as a tomb’s. She had a change of clothes under the sailcloth cover, but it was too much of an effort to move. He’s dead, she realized. What point in denying it? Her throat constricted. Even if Veran had somehow evaded the stone-skin and survived the jump from the battlements, he wouldn’t have been able to swim to the cave with a broken arm. She should have gone to his aid on the walkway, maybe waited longer at the entrance to the strait in case he made it that far. Taking a breath, she pushed the thoughts aside. If their roles had been reversed, he’d have done the same as she did. And after the things he’d kept from her these past few days …

  I owe him nothing.

  Sitting up in the prow, Karmel tried to rouse herself. She was alive, wasn’t she? Against all odds she’d completed her mission, and when she returned to the temple she would make damned sure she received the recognition she deserved. Whatever satisfaction she might have felt at her success, though, was overshadowed by her brother’s duplicity. For all that she and Caval had drifted apart of late, she would never have believed him capable of such a betrayal. And if he could lie to her about the purpose of the mission, what else might he have lied to her about? Had there ever been a predecessor whose shoes Karmel had stepped into? Or had her brother wanted her for this assignment from the start, but held off on telling her to cut down on awkward questions?

  And yet, could it be that she was judging him too quickly? Perhaps he’d assumed she would work out the true goal of the assignment for herself, or perhaps he had wanted to shield her from the burden of responsibility for as long as possible. Perhaps he’d even been commanded to silence by the emira.

  Perhaps, perhaps.

  Whatever the truth of it, her brother would have some explaining to do when they next met.

  How long would it be, though, before she could return to Olaire? Caval’s instructions had been to go to ground in Dian, and even if she’d been minded to ignore him, no ship would risk the journey to the Storm Isles while there were dragons on the loose. But the emira needed to know about the stone-skin, didn’t she? Like Imerle, his goal had been to unleash the dragons on the Sabian Sea. Why? To kill one of the ships’ passengers? There were easier ways to dispose of an enemy. But maybe the stone-skin’s actions were directed not at one ship but at all of them. Maybe the emira was not the only one interested in seeing the power of the Storm Lords broken. The stone-skin could be from the Rubyholt Isles, or some more distant empire such as Erin Elal or Metisca. If so, his exploits in Dian amounted to nothing less than a declaration of war.

  Outside the cave, Karmel caught sight of a ship with three broken masts wallowing in choppy seas a stone’s throw offshore. The head of a silver dragon reared above its port bow, and a ragged volley of arrows fired from the vessel’s quarterdeck bounced off its scales.

  Then above the dragon’s trumpeting and the clanging of the bells in Dian and Natilly, Karmel heard splashing.

  She straightened.

  A man appeared at the mouth of the cave, swimming on his back toward her, one arm laid across his chest.

  * * *

  The dragon came for Agenta. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself behind the shattered mainmast. The creature’s snout slammed into the wood, sending a jolt through the deck that threw the kalischa onto her back. She found herself staring up into the beast’s eyes. Within those swirling cauldrons of liquid gold was a boundless cunning, and she was pinned to the boards by the weight of its gaze. With a grating whisper its lips peeled back to reveal teeth the color of ivory. Its salty breath washed over her, and she heard a rumble in its throat.

  The remaining pikeman charged from the left, stabbing his weapon at the dragon’s neck. Foolish o
f him, but Agenta wasn’t complaining. A hollow retort sounded as the weapon’s head deflected off the dragon’s scales and down toward the deck. The creature turned on its assailant. The soldier raised his weapon to fend off an attack.

  Too late.

  The dragon’s head snapped forward, its teeth closing over the Storm Guard’s waist. A muted scream came from within the beast’s mouth, but it died away as the dragon tossed back its head and gulped down its prey. Its throat bulged in a ripple of scales.

  Agenta’s stomach heaved.

  The soldier’s pike fell to the deck with a clatter.

  A thrumming noise marked the firing of the ballista on the aft deck. Its bolt must have found a gap in the dragon’s armor because the creature recoiled, then roared and swung toward the stern. Lifting its tail from the waves, it brought it whipping down, narrowly missing the catapult and shattering the skylight over the captain’s cabin. Lydanto had been standing a few paces away. He ducked behind the broken mizzenmast. Other dignitaries flung themselves wailing over the rail into the sea.

  The soldiers manning the ballista held their ground. Agenta saw one of them fumble a bolt in his haste to reload the weapon. Before he could recover the missile, the dragon’s tail came whistling down again. This time it found its mark, smashing the catapult to shards and crushing one of the Storm Guards into the deck. The second soldier reeled back with a strangled cry, his face a mask of blood, a sliver of wood protruding from his eye.

  Agenta climbed to her feet. The cause was hopeless. True, the meager contingent of Storm Guards on the Icewing would soon be supplemented by soldiers climbing from the sea, but what use would a hundred troops be now that the weapons racks were all but empty of sorcerous arrows and spears? And even if the Storm Guards could defeat the dragon, what then? With the Icewing’s masts shattered, the ship couldn’t sail from this place. Nor was a rescue likely with the other vessels on the Hunt beset by dragons.