by Marc Turner
A high-pitched whine sounded, and a black-shafted arrow buried itself between two scales on the dragon’s neck, releasing a gush of water. There was a popping noise, and a plate came away from the creature’s flesh. The dragon huffed spray from its nostrils, then scanned the Icewing for the archer responsible. The Storm Guards on the quarterdeck scattered. One man dived behind the ship’s wheel. Another darted for the steps to the main deck, only to trip on a stray line and sprawl to the boards.
The dragon pounced.
Its snout cannoned off an invisible shield in front of the soldier.
For a moment Agenta thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Then understanding dawned.
Selis!
She’d forgotten the air-mage. Looking up, she saw the fat man hovering above the quarterdeck, his robes billowing about him as his hands traced patterns in the air. The dragon had seen him too. It lunged upward with neck extended, straining every muscle as it sought to bite one of the mage’s legs.
Selis was safely out of reach, though, and the creature’s teeth closed on nothing. It fell back into the sea with a crash, throwing up sheets of water that raked the Icewing’s decks.
Agenta nocked a white arrow to her bow, trying to think of a plan—any plan—that might work against this beast. She saw again the scale being blown clear of the dragon’s neck. If she hit the uncovered spot she could wound the creature, but when the dragon next appeared off the port rail she was on the wrong side of the beast for a shot. Dare she risk catching its eye by making a dash for the forecastle?
Patience.
As the dragon reared over the gunwale, an octa scooped up the dead pikeman’s weapon. Behind him five archers loosed a volley that rattled off the creature’s scales like rain off a tin roof. The octa inched backward, all the while jabbing his pike at the dragon’s snout. The beast could not devour him without also swallowing a length of pike, so instead it snapped its teeth shut on the weapon, crunching through the shaft to leave the octa staring wide-eyed at an armspan of splintered wood.
Agenta hesitated. If she did nothing the soldier would suffer the same fate as the pikeman before him, yet she could not afford to waste one of the precious white arrows on distracting the dragon. Octas were replaceable; the magical missiles were not.
Then she noticed a barrel of sorcerously lightened air floating in the sea tight to the dragon’s flank.
A smile touched her lips. Pulling back on the bowstring, she sighted on the cask and let fly.
The arrow thudded into the wood.
Four years ago Agenta had seen a galley carrying tindersparks and smokeshells explode in a fireball in Gilgamar’s harbor. According to the only crew member who survived, the disaster had been caused when a deckhand tossed a smoldering blackweed stick into the hold. The blast that followed had shattered the windows of every building on the waterfront and was heard as far away as Airey. To Agenta, standing on the Key Tower, it had felt as if her eardrums would burst.
The explosion of the barrel beside the dragon was louder. The cask disintegrated in a hail of splinters, and the air concussed, slapping Agenta to the boards. Chunks of wood came raining down. She shielded her face with her hands. Through a gap in her fingers, she saw a Storm Guard stumble against the steps to the aft deck, his hands clasped over his ears. Another soldier tottered to the port rail, blood trickling from one of his nostrils. His lips opened and closed, but Agenta couldn’t hear his words over the ringing in her ears.
A moment to collect herself, then she clambered upright and looked down into the sea. The dragon’s shimmering form could be seen wallowing in the deep to the north. The creature wasn’t dead—Agenta could see its barbed tail flickering—but with luck the explosion had ruptured something inside the beast, for at close quarters the blast must have felt like a punch from a titan. At the very least the kalischa now had a chance to search for her father. She looked round. Farrell had tied a rope to the mainmast and cast it over the starboard rail. A Storm Guard’s head appeared at the gunwale before the merchant hauled the man onto the deck. There was no sign of Rethell, though—
Someone tapped Agenta on the shoulder. She swung round to see Selis beside her. A handspan shorter than the kalischa, he stank of sweat and wine. His dark, beady eyes explored her body, and she crossed her arms over her chest. When he spoke, his voice was strangely high-pitched and so muffled he might have been standing on the other side of a wall.
“Where’s Orsan?” he demanded.
Agenta bridled at his tone. “Halfway back to Olaire by now, probably.”
“Meaning?”
“Where do you think that wave came from?”
Selis’s eyes narrowed. “Another water-mage—”
“Then why didn’t Orsan counter him? And where is Orsan now? How many water-mages have you known to drown?”
Before the fat man could respond, one of the Storm Guards shouted a warning. The dragon was on the move again, circling the stern toward the starboard side of the ship. So much for the beast being injured.
Agenta looked back at Selis. “What can you do against this creature?”
“Little, while it stays underwater.”
She pointed to one of the remaining casks of sorcerously lightened air in the sea. “Can you levitate the barrels and bring them close to the dragon for us to fire at?”
“I could, but what do we gain by stunning the beast? Better to raise the mainmast”—he gestured, and the mast began to lift from the waves—“and then summon up a wind—”
“What about the other masts?” Agenta cut in. “Can you raise those too and still call the wind?”
“No, but—”
“Will the sails of one mast give us enough speed to outdistance a dragon?”
The mage’s frown was all the answer she needed.
More shouts from the Storm Guards. Agenta saw the dragon, still submerged, reappear in the sea off the port rail. For an instant it held its position, its tail moving back and forth. Then it rushed the ship, gathering speed with every heartbeat. It flashed beneath the water like a shaft of lightning.
It means to ram us again.
This time the dragon remained beneath the waves where weapons could not reach it. A barrel of sorcerously lightened air floated on the sea in its path. Agenta thought to detonate the cask, but the dragon was already surging past, setting the barrel bobbing in its wake.
“Brace yourselves!” the octa called.
Agenta seized the stump of the mainmast.
The dragon’s head slammed into the Icewing. The vessel lurched to starboard, and from the hull came a scraping noise, then a crack. The dragon must have tried to surface beneath the ship because the Icewing tipped and lifted an armspan before sliding down and hitting the waves. The jolt put Agenta on her back. Again. It must have broken Selis’s concentration too, for the mainmast fell back to strike the sea. Cries sounded from those in the water.
The Icewing swayed. When it finally came to rest, it was listing to one side.
Another groan from the hull, and Agenta exchanged a glance with Selis, now hovering a handspan above the deck. She heard footfalls from the companionway. A man’s sweat-sheened face appeared to deliver the good news.
“We’re taking on water!”
* * *
Veran.
Karmel smiled. The chill about the cave seemed to lift. Veran hadn’t turned to look at the boat, and the priestess waited until his head thudded into the hull before seizing him under the arms. He stiffened at her touch, then twisted round to stare at her. Karmel blinked. Was that unease in his expression? Resignation? The look was gone before she could focus on it.
Just the pain of his wounds, she decided.
Hauling on his good arm, she helped him scramble into the boat. He closed his eyes and lay panting for a while before dragging himself through sloshing water to the oar-bench. Head bowed, he sat cradling his injured arm. His face was gray and drawn and streaked with blood from the gashes to his forehead and chin. M
ore blood leaked from a cut to his left shoulder beside the strap of his now-empty baldric. Karmel wondered if he was as proud of his scars now as he’d been on the crossing from Olaire. His armguard was dented where his arm had been broken. When Karmel reached out to inspect the arm, Veran flinched.
“Let me look,” she said through the pain of her swollen jaw. Her mangled words echoed round the cave.
The priest shook his head. “I’ll make a sling for it later. Till we can find someone who can set it properly.”
Properly? Didn’t he trust her with something as simple as making a splint? “What about your cuts?”
“I’ve been cut before, girl,” he growled. “As you seem so keen on reminding me.”
Karmel was silent, stung by his hostility. No doubt he was feeling sorry for himself, or maybe he was sulking at having been beaten by the stone-skin. Either way the priestess was in no mood to let him take out his frustrations on her. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”
Veran made no response.
Karmel turned away in disgust. And to think she’d been pleased to see him when he entered the cave! She remembered the time they’d spent together on the journey from Olaire. Just a few bells with the priest then had left her wanting to get out of the boat and swim to Dian. Now she faced spending weeks in the man’s sour company. Weeks of uncomfortable silences and indecipherable grunts. Weeks in a basement that smelled of piss and had neighbors who bickered more often even than she and Veran did. Her face twisted. The hardest part of this Shroud-cursed mission was doubtless still to come.
She started as an explosion sounded from the ship outside. The noise was like someone had clapped their hands next to her ear. But when she glanced outside to find the cause, she could see nothing to account for the blast. Had the dragon rammed the far side of the vessel? No, if the impact had been violent enough to cause such a noise, the ship would be halfway to the bottom of the sea by now. What then? Sorcery?
The priestess looked back at Veran. From the belligerence in his gaze it was clear he didn’t want to talk, but Karmel had questions that couldn’t wait.
“What happened on the battlements after I jumped?”
Veran was a long time in answering. “Natillians came to help. I bailed out before they got a look at my face.”
“And the stone-skin?”
“Jumped a while after I did. I was in the recess when I saw him hit the water. He landed ahead of a dragon. Thought the creature would do for him, but the stone-skin must be a water-mage because he went shooting off north. Dragon trailed him for a time, then let him go.”
Karmel paused, wondering whether the stone-skin’s escape was the reason for Veran’s ill temper. True, the stranger was a loose end, but not one that could hurt them—it wasn’t as if he’d be dropping in on Piput to give him a description of the Chameleons. “Have you seen anyone with skin like his before?”
“No. Hope I never do again, neither.”
“But you said he swam north,” Karmel said. Toward Olaire. Was it a coincidence the stone-skin’s flight had taken him in the direction of the Storm Isles? The priestess doubted it, and judging by the bleakness of Veran’s look, so did he.
Outside, the mainmast of the stricken ship rose a few armspans into the air. Evidently there was an air-mage on board, and an idea took form in Karmel’s mind. An idea as harebrained as jumping off the Dragon Gate. She’d survived that well enough, though, hadn’t she? What was the point of having luck if you didn’t push it a little? “The emira has to be warned about the stone-skin.”
“She will be. In time.”
“And if she doesn’t have that time?”
Veran looked from Karmel to the damaged vessel and back again, his expression darkening all the while. “I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it.”
“If we could reach that ship—”
“We wait here till nightfall, then head back to the city. We ain’t come this far for you to risk it all because you’re getting homesick.”
“Risk what? The emira’s in the clear now, and you know it. In the clear. Piput will look no further than the stone-skin for someone to blame. Even the Natillians who saw us on the battlements won’t have seen past our uniforms.”
“And if someone on the terraces noticed us swimming round just now?”
Karmel regarded him skeptically. “I hardly think—”
“Damned right! You don’t think, you do as you’re told! Our orders are to lie low, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
The priestess scowled. “The stone-skin changes all that. Imerle will want to know—”
“Since when have you given a shit what Imerle wants?” Veran’s lip curled. “If you want to spit your dummy out at your brother, you’ll have to do it on your own time.”
Karmel groped for a response, but none came. Did Veran think she would risk a swim with the dragons just because she was sulking? She wanted to kick spray over him. Instead she turned her back on him and looked out at the ship. The mainmast streamed water as it crept higher into the air, dragging the sodden mainsails with it. Then it toppled once more.
But not before Karmel had glimpsed the flag the vessel was flying. The Icewing. “That’s the emira’s ship,” she breathed.
The oar-bench creaked as Veran shifted his weight. “So what if it is? Imerle won’t be on board.”
“You don’t know that.”
He barked a laugh. “She knew the damned gate wouldn’t be coming down, didn’t she? You think she’s stupid enough to put her head in a dragon’s maw? Most likely she’s tucked up in her palace, hammering the last few nails into the other Storm Lords’ coffins.”
“She wouldn’t just give up her flagship like that. No way.”
“Ships can be replaced.”
The silver-scaled dragon had risen beneath the Icewing, and the vessel was half lifted into the air before sinking down again.
“Even if Imerle’s not on board, another water-mage will be,” Karmel said, determined not to back down.
“Then why’s the ship still here? You don’t think whoever’s commanding it would have fled by now if they could?”
“There are people in the water. Maybe the captain wants to rescue them before he sets sail.”
Veran snorted.
“If we swam across now, we might be mistaken for passengers who’d been swept overboard.”
The priest gestured to his broken arm. “You reckon I can make it all that way with this?”
If Karmel had thought there had been a chance of that, she’d have broken his other arm too. “Then I’ll have to go alone. I’m sure you can survive without my company for a few days.” The gods knew, she could survive without his.
Veran pushed himself upright, setting the boat rocking. “You’d leave me here like this?”
There was something in his voice that gave Karmel pause. Was he worried she might steal the glory if she returned to Olaire? Or that Imerle might not believe her story without Veran there to back her up? “You swam all the way from the gate, didn’t you? The beach is, what, a few hundred strokes from here? Once you get there, you won’t need my help making it up to the city.” Unless he’d begun walking on his hands.
Veran opened his mouth to speak, but Karmel was already turning away. She was done talking with him. Truth be told, she hadn’t yet decided whether to try for the Icewing, but when she reached a decision it would be hers, not his. She’d played the good girl until now, and look where that had got her. It was time they started doing things her way.
The priest’s tread sounded behind Karmel, but she did not glance round.
Then his right arm curled round her throat, and she was lifted off her feet.
CHAPTER 14
A BREEZE BLEW into Senar’s face as he followed the passage into the belly of the Founder’s Citadel. There was space for only two people to walk abreast, and the Guardian found himself next to Mistress Darbonna. Her every breath was a wheeze as she shuffled into the glo
om. Ahead, two of her assistants led the company: grim-faced men carrying torches and wearing swords strapped to their waists. Strange, Senar mused, that librarians should bear arms. But then in a citadel built by the titans, one learned to prepare for all eventualities, he supposed.
A murmur sounded in the Guardian’s ear, but when he looked round to see who had spoken he found the people behind him—Mazana and the Everlord—were walking silently several paces away. A number of times Senar had heard noises carried on the breeze: a snatch of conversation, or a whispered rasp like wind playing across sand, or a clank of metal as of a sword striking stone. There were footfalls too from along the side corridors. When he peered down them, though, he could make out nothing through the cloying darkness. In the end he decided he was hearing echoes of the company’s own footsteps, or perhaps the footfalls of those who had walked this way long ago, for doubtless the breeze roaming the corridors carried sounds that were as old as the fortress itself.
Senar had passed the entrances to scores of chambers, yet not one of them had contained a book or a scroll. Most of the rooms were dark and empty. On occasion, though, he would see signs of past use such as potsherds or coins or—as now—the ashes of a fire. He placed a hand on Darbonna’s arm and pointed to the ashes.
“Is the fortress inhabited?”
The old woman stared at him. “Good gracious, no, my dear. Unless of course you are referring to our humble community of librarians.”
“What about before you came?”
“There were some people here, yes. The sick and the destitute.”
“And you drove them out?” Senar said, glancing at Darbonna’s sword-bearing assistants.
“What’s that?”
“The people here before you, you drove them out?”
“Certainly not. They were merely … encouraged to leave. It is the scrolls, you understand? We cannot risk the texts being damaged or stolen.”