Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  She looked round. Bobbing in the shin-deep water all about were fallen fruits from the malirange trees that ringed the courtyard. A few armspans to her left was the corpse of the weaponsmaster, while to her right …

  Caval.

  Gods, no. She rose and limped to where her brother floated facedown in the water, then fell to her knees beside him. She turned him onto his back and lifted his head. Liquid trickled from his mouth. His eyes stared back at her sightlessly. Death had smoothed the creases from his brow, stripping years from his face, and for an instant Karmel saw again the brother she’d shared the boat with as a child. Blinking rapidly, she reached out—

  A shadow fell across her. She looked up.

  Then froze.

  One of the twins was hanging into the courtyard from the terrace, and looming above her was the copper-scaled dragon. Rage shone in its eyes, one of which, Karmel noticed, had a sword embedded in it. The creature’s gaze swept the courtyard before coming to rest on Karmel and Caval. Absurdly the priestess found herself reaching for her blade. Was she going to fight the beast over her brother’s corpse? Had she escaped the dragons in the seas off Dian just so she could serve herself up to this creature?

  Still she held her ground, too numbed even to release her power and hide herself.

  The dragon’s head moved toward her. Its lips parted to reveal red-rimmed teeth, and Karmel smelled the fetid saltiness of its breath. She felt as if she were falling into its shimmering eyes. Then it gave a roar and recoiled, its head twisting round to snap at something behind.

  Karmel took a shuddering breath. She should flee before the dragon returned, she knew. But that would mean leaving Caval, and she wasn’t yet ready to bid him farewell. The finality of his death hit her. Her shoulders sagged, her breath caught in her throat. If she’d gone to his aid sooner against the twins he might be alive now. It was her hesitation as much as the final sword thrust that had killed him …

  She stiffened.

  The final sword thrust.

  So where was the wound? She scanned Caval’s body. There was a cut along his chest, a bruise across his chin and jaw, and his shirt was bloody round a puncture in his right arm midway between wrist and elbow. But none of those injuries would have killed him. Karmel pictured the final moments of his fight with Mili and Tali. The priestess’s thrown knife had spoiled one of the sisters’ attacks, but Karmel had been hurled into the water before she saw what came next. And by the time she’d resurfaced, her brother was down. What if he’d merely been knocked unconscious? What if the twins had been distracted by the dragon before they could deliver a mortal wound?

  Hope kindled inside her. The sister she’d seen hanging into the courtyard had now climbed back to the terrace, so Karmel moved alongside Caval and pushed down on his chest to expel any liquid from his lungs. So deep was the water in the yard, however, that all she succeeded in doing was forcing his head and body beneath the surface. Shit. She looked round. At the edge of the courtyard was a bench, and she struggled to her feet before seizing Caval by his collar. With her right hand only, she dragged him toward it through bobbing malirange fruits. Lifting him onto the seat required the use of her injured left arm as well, and the effort tore a groan from her.

  Caval was lying on his front. She rolled him onto his back and freed his right arm where it had become trapped beneath him. When she applied force to his chest, just below the rib cage, she saw liquid gush from his mouth. She turned his head to one side then repeated the action until the flow of water ceased.

  So much water …

  Karmel took a breath, then bent down and covered Caval’s mouth with hers. She blew out the air she’d inhaled—only to feel that breath brush her cheek as it came out of his nose. She cursed. She wasn’t thinking straight. Pinching his nostrils shut, she tried again.

  This time his chest rose.

  Frantic now, Karmel lowered an ear to his mouth to listen for breathing, but she couldn’t make out anything over the splashing of water all about. Interlacing the fingers of both hands, she placed the heel of her right palm in the middle of Caval’s chest and began pressing. The movement sent pain lancing through her left side, but she paid it no mind. Again and again she pushed, fighting a growing trembling in her arms.

  Caval remained still.

  Anger welled up inside her, and she increased the rate of her compressions, putting all her strength into it. Come on, damn you! Breathe! She felt one of his ribs crack beneath her hands.

  Still nothing.

  Karmel’s eyes misted. She was wasting her time. For all she knew, Caval had broken his neck when he fell from the terrace. Or one of the twins had crushed his windpipe, or landed some other fatal blow on him that the priestess hadn’t seen. Even if Karmel was right and he had drowned, he could have passed through Shroud’s Gate quarter of a bell ago, for she had no way of knowing how long she had blacked out for.

  And yet wouldn’t his flesh have been colder if he’d been dead all that time?

  Karmel stared down at his face. His eyes remained closed, and his expression was peaceful. She wondered if she was right to try to bring him back. What did he have to return to? The Chameleons were finished, and the surviving priests in Olaire would be hunted down by Imerle’s forces. If Karmel revived him the two of them might not even make it as far as the palace gates. And if he did come back, like as not the lines on his forehead would return too.

  Pushing her doubts aside, Karmel blew another lungful of air into his mouth.

  * * *

  Agenta knelt beside Balen and took his hand in hers. His skin felt rough as leather. The mage was younger than the kalisch, but the ravages of Imerle’s sorcery had left him shrunken like one of the mummified corpses Agenta had seen in a Karalatian tomb last year. His breath rattled in his throat. She knew she should say something to ease his passing, yet even as she groped for the words the light faded in his eyes. He slumped into her arms. She eased his body to the floor. When she raised her hands she saw his blood was on them. His and all the others’. Of the Gilgamarians who had set out for the palace, were she and Warner the only ones now alive? How many had died to deliver her here, and for what?

  Thinking of the dead just brought back the image of Rethell on the Icewing’s deck. A tightness gripped her chest so she couldn’t breathe. She wished her father were here.

  Or she were with him.

  She looked to where Warner fought alongside the Watchman against the stone-skinned stranger—another of the emira’s lackeys, she supposed, for why else had he attacked Balen? Even outnumbered, the green-robed man seemed to be doing most of the attacking, but whenever he carved out an opening against one opponent, the other would move to close it. Agenta’s gaze flickered to the Watchman. She’d seen him somewhere before, but where?

  A burst of light drew her eye to the northern end of the chamber. Imerle stood enveloped in sorcerous flames, while a handful of paces away was Mazana Creed, almost invisible at the center of a storm of glittering energies. A blast of Mazana’s magic ricocheted off an invisible shield in front of the emira before exploding against one of the walls of water in a thousand multicolored sparks. To the women’s right, Mazana’s bodyguard was battling the executioner. In the span of Agenta’s gaze she saw the Storm Lady’s man connect with a slash that clanged off the metal threads across the giant’s abdomen.

  The kalisch’s first throwing star lay on the floor where it had fallen, now melted by sorcery. She was conscious of the remaining star at her left wrist. Her route to Imerle was blocked by Mazana, but if she circled to her right she might find a place for a clear throw. If the emira’s defenses could shield her from Mazana’s magic, though, would they not also shield her from the star?

  Perhaps an opportunity would present itself later for Agenta to dispatch Imerle. For now the kalisch’s priority had to be helping Warner against the stone-skin.

  Even as the thought came to her, she saw the trita floored by a punch. The Watchman bellowed to catch the stone-sk
in’s attention.

  Agenta drew her sword.

  * * *

  Kempis swore as the stone-skin advanced on him. Doubtless Red-Face would return to the fray in heartbeats, but the septia wouldn’t last even that long against this foe. He took two steps back.

  Then realized his mistake. The stone-skin was a damned water-mage, wasn’t he? The lull in the fighting gave him time to use his sorcery, and immediately above Kempis the ceiling collapsed. A torrent of water slammed down onto him as if he were standing beneath a waterfall. Through a curtain of spray he saw a blur of green as the stone-skin approached.

  He flung himself to his left.

  * * *

  Agenta edged forward, her gaze fixed on the stone-skin’s blade. It struck her that, for all her weapons training, this would be the first time she’d fought someone for keeps. She shouted a challenge, and the swordsman swung to face her. His gaze when it met Agenta’s was as stony as his complexion.

  The flood of water battering the Watchman ceased.

  There was movement in the sea behind the stone-skin. Agenta thought that the dragon had returned, but the shadow of the creature’s body remained visible to the south. Closer, she saw what appeared to be a vast serpent, barbed like a flense whip, yet as broad around as her torso.

  And it was coming closer still.

  The dragon’s tail broke the wall of water, whipping spray across the room. To the kalisch’s right Warner, just climbing to his feet, raised his shield, and the tail struck it. The trita was hurled from his feet.

  Then the tail slammed into Agenta and she went down.

  * * *

  The collision with the dragon knocked Senar’s breath from him, jarring the ribs he’d bruised in the flooded passages. He threw out his arms, desperate for something to hold on to. His right hand missed the spear, but his left—his halfhand—curled round the top of one of the dragon’s scales, and for a precarious moment he hung from it by two fingers. Through the beast’s scales he could sense the heat of its body, feel the pulse of the arteries in its neck. Just above him was the spear, and as his fingers began to slip he grabbed for it with his free hand.

  Got it.

  The downward force on the weapon must have ground its point into the dragon’s flesh, for the creature trumpeted with rage then craned its neck round, snarling and snapping. Senar was too close to the beast’s head for it to reach him, but its twisting made the scales about the Guardian’s halfhand pinch tight, threatening to shear through his remaining fingers. He snatched the hand back and grabbed the spear with it, praying the weapon was anchored securely enough to take his full weight.

  The dragon trumpeted again then tossed its head in an effort to dislodge him, shaking Senar until his teeth clattered. Somehow he clung on. The creature’s thrashing was taking it away from the roof, and when the Guardian looked down he saw waves ten armspans below, foaming at the dragon’s flanks. The terrace was a similar distance to his left and moving farther away. Mili had climbed back up to the roof to rejoin her sister, and together they stared up at Senar with expressions of exhaustion and incredulity.

  Still, at least it was him looking down on them for a change.

  The spear shaft was beginning to bend under his weight. He removed his halfhand from it and curled its fingers back round one of the dragon’s scales. He had to act quickly now in case the creature thought to dunk him into the sea. Moving his right hand along the spear’s shaft—away from the dragon’s body—he leaned into the weapon with all his strength, driving it into the beast’s neck.

  The dragon spasmed. Hot black blood spurted from its flesh onto Senar’s shirt over his right shoulder and upper arm.

  He froze.

  Dragon blood.

  Matron’s mercy!

  He recalled the execution of the Untarian three days ago, saw again the poisoned claws of the giant’s metal glove stabbing into the condemned man’s chest. Senar looked down at his shirt. The cut he’d sustained in the palace had been to his left shoulder, not his right, meaning the dragon’s blood would not yet have mixed with his. What effect, though, would the blood have on his skin when it seeped through his shirt? Could it leach through his flesh and into his veins?

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, because the dragon had lifted a taloned foot from the water and was reaching for him. He lashed out with his Will to keep the foot at bay, then adjusted his grip on the spear and leaned into it once more. Grunting and straining, he ground the weapon up and down, round and round. The dragon shrieked and quivered and bucked. And yet for all the pain Senar seemed to be causing it, he still hadn’t succeeded in pushing the spear any farther into—

  Suddenly the spear slid more than an armspan into the dragon’s flesh. The Guardian, with only a short part of the shaft now to hold on to, eased his pressure on the weapon. More blood pumped from the creature’s wound. Senar turned his head so it would not splash his face. A groan rattled along the dragon’s neck. Music to the Guardian’s ears. It gave a hacking cough as if blood was bubbling in its throat.

  Time for Senar to take his leave.

  Bracing his feet against the dragon’s scales he pushed off, twisting in the air to take him clear of a swishing claw.

  Now he needed a touch of the Matron’s luck.

  The terrace was a stone’s throne away, but Senar had never intended to swim back to it. Turning his fall into a dive he plunged toward the sea, scanning the water below for a telltale flash of light.

  * * *

  Kempis’s sternum ached where the dragon’s tail had caught him and sent him flying. When the world righted itself he found himself on top of the flint-eyed Gilgamarian woman, her face in his left armpit. She squirmed beneath him, hissing something indecipherable. He rolled onto his back.

  His sword lay in a puddle, and he picked it up and pushed himself to his feet. Bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t remember hitting his head in the fall, yet the throne room tipped and swayed. The stone-skin and Red-Face had resumed their disagreement, and he stumbled toward them, the flint-eyed woman with him. The stone-skin must have known he couldn’t stand for long against three opponents for he sprang to attack the woman, aiming a slice at her knees. Red-Face brought his shield round to intercept.

  The green-robed man retreated.

  Conscious the stone-skin might use a pause to unleash his sorcery again, Kempis pressed forward. The stone-skin leaned back to evade a cut, but for once he made no effort to counter. Should have been a good sign, that, yet for some reason it made Kempis nervous. Red-Face shuffled left to place himself between his kinswoman and the stone-skin. He spoke a few words Kempis did not understand, and the septia risked a look across.

  “You talking to me?” he asked in the common tongue.

  “You don’t speak Gilgamarian?” the trita said, matching his dialect.

  “Next language on my list.”

  The stone-skin attacked, and Red-Face blocked an overhead strike. To Kempis he said, “On three, you charge him—”

  Kempis’s snort cut him short. “You charge him! You’re the one with the bloody shield!”

  “I’m also the one with the trita’s stripes on my shoulder!”

  “And maybe that would mean something—if we were in Gilgamar.”

  Red-Face opened his mouth to speak, but the flint-eyed woman got in first. “Save your breath, Warner.”

  “Agenta—”

  “The stone-skin can understand what you’re saying. I’ve seen the glint in his eyes.”

  Kempis regarded the green-robed man thoughtfully. So the bastard knew the common tongue, did he? Perhaps the septia could use that to his advantage.

  Warner and the stone-skin traded blows. The addition of Agenta to their ranks had not tipped the balance as Kempis had hoped, for Warner was forever putting his shield between his companion and the stone-skin, thus preventing her from engaging the enemy. Misplaced chivalry, so far as Kempis was concerned, but then was there another kind? The trita parried a cut from
the stone-skin and retaliated with a thrust that was turned aside by a deft twirl of his opponent’s broadsword. For a heartbeat Warner’s blade was trapped—a heartbeat that might have proved fatal had Kempis not attacked at that moment and driven the stone-skin back.

  The exchange had given the septia an idea. A few days ago he’d seen Pompit sparring in the Watchstation’s exercise yard. The clerk had been showing off a maneuver to a woman among the new recruits. By twisting his wrist at the instant his sword met his opponent’s, Pompit had pinned her weapon long enough to steal a kiss. Kempis squinted at the stone-skin. Okay, the kiss might be pushing it, but the pinning-the-sword part had looked simple enough. If the septia could catch his foe’s blade, it might give his Gilgamarian allies time to deliver a fatal blow.

  One way to find out.

  A cut from the green-robed man gave Kempis his opportunity. He blocked the strike, twisting his wrist in the manner he remembered Pompit doing.

  Only to find his sword wrenched from his hand. It arced into the air and sailed over his head.

  Kempis’s eyes widened.

  Realizing he would now be defenseless against the stone-skin’s next attack, he shouted “Now!” at the top of his voice, hoping to convince his enemy that his blunder had been a deliberate ploy.

  The stone-skin hesitated, and Kempis jumped back out of range.

  His blade caught briefly in the sea overhead before falling to the floor with a clatter.

  * * *

  The momentum of Senar’s fall carried him deep into the sea. Below and to his left were blurred shapes in the water. He swam toward them with frenetic strokes, fearing at any moment he would be plucked from the waves by the dragon seeking revenge. The bursts of red light had come to a sudden end, and it occurred to him the sorcerous contest between Mazana and Imerle might have ended. If that was so—and if Mazana had lost—he would doubtless soon be joining her in a watery grave.

  His hands pushed into air. His head and upper body followed, and he took in a breath. Blood rushed to his head as he hung suspended from the throne room’s ceiling. Then a kick of his legs, and he was plummeting toward the floor. He twisted to take the brunt of the fall on his left side, but his head still cracked against the ground.