Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  “… take you to her.”

  Senar hesitated before shaking his head. What would he say when Imerle asked what had happened in the fortress? How would he explain his visit to the shaman? “I think not.”

  Tali and Mili grinned as they drew their needle-thin swords. “The emira warned us…”

  “… your allegiance might have changed.”

  “We have dreamed…”

  “… of this moment, Guardian.”

  “Dreamed of you.”

  Senar said, “You share even your dreams?”

  The twins did not respond. Instead Tali leaned close to Mili and whispered something in her sister’s ear. Mili giggled, then murmured a reply, gesturing toward the Guardian with her blade.

  Senar unsheathed his own sword, his mind racing. A clash with the women was sure to draw every Storm Guard in the palace, so he’d have to beat them quickly. Easier said than done, though. For while the sisters looked little more than girls, Imerle was unlikely to have chosen her bodyguards for their fresh-faced charm. Doubtless they were lightning-fast and fought seamlessly together. He needed to find a way to isolate one from the other.

  His gaze shifted to the doorway to Jambar’s quarters. If he retreated just within the room he could stop Tali and Mili doubling up on him, but then the twins could merely trap him inside and wait for reinforcements. He looked round. Ten paces behind him the corridor opened out, but where he now stood it was too narrow for one of the sisters to circle round and attack from behind …

  Movement from the twins interrupted his thoughts. They had retreated a few steps and were sheathing their swords. Senar wondered if they meant to withdraw.

  Then they sprang forward in unison, tumbling like acrobats.

  The Guardian took a pace back, uncertain. At the last moment the woman on the right, Tali, landed nimbly and drew her blade before attacking with a thrust to Senar’s midriff.

  He parried.

  Mili, meanwhile, had continued her tumbling. Her ponytail bobbed as she launched herself into a somersault that took her up and over the Guardian’s left shoulder. Drawing her sword in midair, she aimed a cut at his head.

  Surprised as Senar was, he was still able to block the strike with his Will.

  An instant later he heard Mili touch down in the corridor behind him.

  He sighed.

  So much for not being attacked from behind.

  * * *

  The sounds of fighting echoed along the palace corridors. Always it seemed to Karmel as if a battle must be taking place around the next corner, but always when she reached that corner she found the passage beyond empty. Evidently a few soldiers loyal to the Storm Lords remained alive within the maze of corridors, yet all the guards Karmel had seen since entering the palace wore the emira’s fiery wave pinned to their breasts. Each time she encountered them she watched their faces for anything that might indicate the Chameleons were walking into a trap. All she saw in their expressions, though, was grim weariness mixed with relief at what the soldiers must have thought was the arrival of allies.

  A misconception the Chameleons would soon be disabusing them of.

  Over two hundred priests and priestesses had made the journey to the palace, but at each intersection a handful separated from the main party until now only eight remained in Karmel’s group. To her left walked Caval, his heels clicking on the mosaic floor, while to her right was Wick, Keeper of the Keys, his long blond hair shimmering like spun gold in the light streaming through the high-set windows. A step behind him strode the weaponsmaster, Foss, his expression as sour as if he were walking to his execution. Of the remaining five Chameleons, only the man Caval had been talking to when Karmel entered his quarters earlier—Aminex—was known to her. But the others all had the look of warriors who knew one end of a sword from the other. Caval had brought his best.

  He would need them too, considering what awaited them in the throne room. Imerle’s twin bodyguards, Mili and Tali, never strayed far from her side, and their prowess with the blade was legendary. As for the executioner, even the Karmel of three days ago would have thought twice before crossing swords with him, slow and clumsy though he would doubtless be. Surely these three freaks would be no match for eight Chameleons, though—not least because the Chameleons would have the advantage of surprise. The thought should have eased Karmel’s nerves, yet with each step closer to the throne room she found her breath growing tighter in her chest. It wasn’t a clash with Imerle’s bodyguards that she most feared, after all, but what she might learn from the emira that Caval had wanted to keep secret.

  Along the wall of the corridor ahead were arched double doors thrown wide. In front of them stood four soldiers—three women and one man. Caval nodded to them as he drew near, and they parted to let the Chameleons pass—all of the Chameleons, that is, save Wick and one of the priestesses Karmel didn’t recognize, who stayed behind to keep the guards company.

  Karmel’s steps faltered as she entered the underwater passage beyond the doors. She’d heard tale of the emira’s subaquatic domain, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for the wonder of that corridor with its wavering walls of glassy blue light. Beyond, the throne room was fifty paces long and half that across, yet the weight of water all about made Karmel feel oddly claustrophobic. The air was dank and gloomy. As the priestess looked round, a school of hartfish passed overhead, only to scatter as a kris shark floated into view.

  Karmel swung her gaze to the six thrones at the far end of the chamber. In the chair right of center sat Imerle. Beside her was the chief minister, and behind her stood the executioner, his eyes fixed on something over Karmel’s shoulder. The twins were absent, though, as was the emira’s water-mage, Orsan.

  Karmel’s pulse quickened. Caval’s gambit might yet work.

  Caval halted before the thrones, and Karmel drew up alongside him.

  Imerle’s gaze swept the group before coming to rest on Karmel. The priestess had never met the emira before, but Imerle must have known her all the same, for a ghost of a smile touched her lips. She looked at Caval. “What is she doing here?”

  Caval stepped forward. “She has news from Dian.”

  “News of such gravity it required her to return to Olaire against our express instructions?”

  “Indeed. It seems you were not the only one with an interest in disrupting today’s Dragon Hunt. Karmel had company in the citadel. A stranger. A man with skin like granite.”

  Imerle’s smile faded.

  “Ah, I see the stranger is no stranger to you, Emira,” Caval went on, glancing at Karmel as he spoke.

  The priestess looked from her brother to Imerle. At the mention of the stone-skin there had been a glint of … something in the emira’s eyes. So Caval was right: the stranger must be Imerle’s man, for how else could she know of him? And yet something about this business with the stone-skin didn’t ring true.

  Karmel had too many other things on her mind, though, to chase down the thought. Starting with why Caval had chosen to open with this line of attack. What interest did he have in the stone-skin? Why hadn’t he confronted the emira straight out with her treachery?

  Pernay turned his oscura-clouded gaze on Karmel. “This stone-skinned stranger, you’re sure he was in the citadel to stop the Dragon Gate being lowered?”

  The priestess nodded.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He escaped,” she said, her voice still rough from Veran’s attack.

  The chief minister exchanged a look with Imerle.

  “What’s going on here?” Aminex said, but whether the question was aimed at Caval or the emira or Pernay, Karmel couldn’t say. She’d been thinking the same, as it happened. Imerle and her chief minister must have realized Karmel’s presence spelled trouble, yet they appeared more interested in the stone-skin than in the more immediate threat posed by the Chameleons.

  It was Pernay who answered Aminex’s question. “An assassination attempt was made on the emira this mornin
g by a woman with the same skin as this stranger from the citadel. She too … escaped.”

  Karmel’s eyes narrowed. A coincidence that two people with such distinctive skin should be prowling the Storm Isles at this time? Hardly. And if the female stone-skin had tried to kill Imerle, it was fair to assume the actions of her kinsman in Dian had also been aimed at the emira. So it was war, then. But over what? Who were these stone-skins? And would the imminent conflict between the Chameleons and Imerle play into their hands?

  The emira was staring at Karmel, and the woman’s unnerving smile returned. “Grave tidings indeed,” Imerle said, scanning the line of Chameleons before looking at Caval. “We do not see, though, why it needed six of you to deliver them.”

  Caval inclined his head. “Emira, may I introduce Aminex of the Chameleon Temple in—”

  “Oh, come now, High Priest, we think this charade has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

  Caval paused, then shrugged. “As you wish.”

  He clapped his hands.

  From the far end of the underwater passage came a man’s scream, then the clash of metal on metal as Wick and his female companion set about silencing Imerle’s soldiers guarding the corridor. A dozen heartbeats later all was quiet.

  Karmel’s companions drew their swords, but Karmel did not follow suit. Her gaze was still on the emira. A whisper of cold passed through the priestess, for throughout the struggle Imerle had not so much as blinked.

  And her smile remained in place.

  * * *

  Kempis’s head was spinning. For the last quarter-bell he’d been watching the palace gates from the corner of Monks Lane, and in that interval he’d seen them change hands no fewer than three times. When he and Sniffer had arrived, the gates were being opened by Storm Guards to let in a troop of Chameleons. After the priests and priestesses disappeared into the palace, more Storm Guards emerged from the building—come to reinforce their colleagues at the gates, Kempis assumed.

  Wrong.

  He’d stared slack-jawed as the newcomers fell on their comrades, slaughtering a handful before the defenders rallied. By this time, though, the attackers had unbolted the gates to admit a force of men wearing gray cloaks who’d come running up from the west. Once inside the palace grounds, those warriors had drawn curved swords from scabbards strapped to their backs … and begun butchering the Storm Guards, friend and foe alike. A sensible enough strategy, Kempis supposed. If you couldn’t be sure of the allegiance of the man in front of you, you didn’t gamble your life on a guess.

  Evidently not wanting to miss out on the fun, some Chameleons had then reappeared from the palace and started firing crossbows indiscriminately into the melee. Finally a company of Gilgamarians from the stranded galleon—Kempis had seen the flint-eyed woman among them—had materialized along Crown Avenue and attacked through the still-open gates.

  It almost made the septia want to hang around to see who turned up next.

  He slipped out of the gray cloak he’d been wearing over his uniform. A few streets back he’d stumbled across a dead raider and relieved him of his cloak, thinking a disguise might come in handy if the city fell to the invaders. With such obvious confusion among the warring factions, though, Kempis decided the cloak was as likely to get him killed as it was to save his skin. And if he was going to follow Loop through Shroud’s Gate, he’d rather it be because of who he was than who he wasn’t.

  The Gilgamarians had driven their opponents into the palace grounds, leaving the gates momentarily unguarded. Kempis wasn’t going to get a better chance than this to slip through unchallenged, but still he hesitated.

  “Get out of here,” he said to Sniffer.

  The Untarian ignored him. Odd, she’d never before had trouble hearing his orders to flee. “The way’s clear, sir. If we’re quick—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? We don’t know for sure Loop’s stone-skin will go after the emira. No point in us both risking our lives on a no-show.”

  Sniffer unsheathed her knives. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Gilgamarian attack is running out of steam.”

  Kempis looked back at the gates. The Untarian was right—the tide of the battle was turning, thanks to the arrival of yet more Gray Cloaks from Crown Avenue.

  “Reckon we should be going now if we’re going at all,” Sniffer added.

  The septia opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. What was the point in arguing? In the time it took him to drum some sense into the Untarian’s skull, the Gilgamarians would all be dead. And with them would go his chance of getting inside.

  To hell with this.

  Drawing his sword, he set off at a run toward the palace.

  The ground beyond the gates was littered with the dead and dying. The septia slowed as he picked a path through the carnage.

  “Coming through! Coming through!”

  Ahead a Gray Cloak writhed on the blood-smeared flagstones, his right leg hacked off at the knee. Kempis hurdled him, only for his left foot to come down on a carelessly discarded set of intestines. He slipped and fell, but was up again in a heartbeat, Sniffer urging him on. The crash of swords was loud in his ears. The surviving Gilgamarians had lost more than half their number now and were covering the flight to the palace of the flint-eyed woman and a few others. A Storm Guard noticed Kempis and ordered him to halt.

  The septia paid him no mind, increasing his pace as he cleared the tangle of corpses. His shoulders prickled for an arrow or a crossbow bolt that would bring this Shroud-cursed madness to an end.

  It never came.

  Instead he found himself charging at five soldiers who had appeared from one of the palace’s arches. For once Kempis’s luck was in, for between him and the guards was a fountain with a statue of a sea dragon at its center. The Storm Guards went left, so the septia went right, sprinting for the arch through which the soldiers had emerged.

  Kempis plunged into the palace’s corridors. The clamor of fighting faded behind, to be replaced by his wheezing and the slap of Sniffer’s bare feet. He had no idea where he was going, but for now his only concern was to put some distance between himself and the combatants. As he approached a T-junction he heard shouts from the right-hand turning. He went left. In front a woman in a servant’s livery squealed and vanished into a courtyard.

  The corridors flashed by in a blur of white.

  The next intersection was strewn with corpses, and beyond them the septia caught sight of two Chameleons, a man and a woman, dressed in shimmering robes. He darted into the right turning, his shoulder brushing the left-hand wall, his sandals skidding on the mosaic floor …

  He slid to a stop.

  A short distance away waited two more priests, facing in the opposite direction. They spun round to confront him. There was blood on their swords, and on the ground behind them lay the bodies of three Storm Guards.

  “Back off, lads,” Kempis said with as much authority as he could muster. “We’re on the same side.” Which was true, in a way. The septia was on the Chameleons’ side, because he was on the side of whichever faction happened to be winning at any given time. And from where he was standing, that was the priests just now, no question.

  The men smiled to suggest they weren’t taken in by the ruse.

  Kempis retreated a pace.

  * * *

  As the Storm Guards drew near, Warner stepped in front of Agenta. She’d tried showing them Elemy’s dagger and commanding them to step aside, but their expressions made it clear they were Imerle’s creatures. Of course they are, the kalisch thought bitterly—the emira would long since have swept the palace clear of enemies.

  Though how the Chameleons fitted into the picture remained a mystery.

  “Put your weapons down!” a voice said.

  It was only then that Agenta saw standing at the back of the Storm Guards a septia in the uniform of one of Imerle’s personal troops. Not just any soldier, either. Sticks. His scowl told her he remembered her too. From the shadow that crossed his fea
tures, he hadn’t forgiven her for surviving their encounter in the Deeps.

  Agenta bit back a curse. She had barely set foot in the palace, and already the game was up. The Storm Guards outnumbered her party eleven to seven, and of those seven, one—Farrell—was not even armed. If Warner and his soldiers held off Sticks’s men for a while, then Gilgamarian reinforcements might arrive from the gates. But the next person to enter the palace was as likely to be an enemy as a friend. And even if Agenta’s forces defeated these Storm Guards, what about the next group they ran into, and the next, and the next?

  The kalisch looked at Sticks. Giving her voice a note of self-assurance she did not feel, she said, “We have business with the emira. If you escort us to her, then this need not come to bloodshed.”

  Sticks snorted and gestured to his troops. “Take them.”

  At the front of Agenta’s party, Iqral, the Kalanese spearman who had accompanied her to the Deeps, was the first to react. He leapt at the soldier opposite him, and their shields crashed together. The Storm Guard was thrown back a step. Iqral crouched, then thrust his shortspear under the lower rim of his enemy’s shield and into his groin. The man screamed and went down.

  Beside Iqral a short-haired Gilgamarian swordswoman aimed a cut at the Storm Guard across from her—a huge man with arms as thick as a blacksmith’s. He blocked the effort with his mace, then countered with a blow that smashed through the woman’s parrying stroke and caved in her skull. Blood splashed to the wall behind.

  Suddenly crossbows twanged from along the corridor, and screams sounded from the rear ranks of the Storm Guards. Agenta glimpsed shimmering robes in the passage beyond the emira’s soldiers. Chameleons. Had they come to rescue the Gilgamarians, then?

  Somehow the kalisch doubted it.

  The Storm Guards spun round to face this new threat. Iqral took advantage by slamming his spear into the neck of the soldier who’d killed his female companion. As the Kalanese tried to withdraw the weapon, though, it snagged in his foe’s flesh. A sword stroke from another Storm Guard shattered the shaft. Iqral retreated, reaching for the remaining spear strapped to his back.