The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  “Fucking tell me about it.”

  The war against the Scaled Folk had emptied the League’s coffers just as it had the Empire’s, devastated its productive workforce, laid waste once prosperous centers of population and whole tracts of once fertile land. And the speculative border skirmishing against the Empire that followed in the south once the Scaled Folk were safely defeated had not delivered any of the promised recompense, had in fact only sucked down more men and resources that neither side could afford to lose—hence an early, hastily brokered peace.

  For the privateer fraternity, Gil guessed, the whole thing would have been an unmitigated disaster. No real fighting to be done at sea during the war itself, if you didn’t count a few early and abortive attempts to burn the incoming Scaled Folk rafts. Decently seaworthy vessels—and some not even decently—got commandeered and turned into troop transports or evacuation barges, or were put to running basic supplies, payment for all of which was scant to nonexistent. The privateer crews were pared back to a minimum, most of their fighting strength drafted into landing parties alongside more conventional forces, leaving the bare minimum needed to handle the sailing. And for those who survived to war’s end, no prospect of a return to the good old days of licensed raiding on the imperial main, because nobody could afford the fresh hostilities it might provoke.

  Under the circumstances, what was any self-respecting privateer to do?

  “He had a pretty good run, considering.” Ringil drank off a measured portion of his own rum and set it down again. “Started taking Empire merchantmen, regardless of the treaties. That got him loudly proclaimed an outlaw, because the League couldn’t very well be seen to do anything less, at which point he must have decided what the fuck, may as well have all the fish in the net while I’m trawling, and he starts hitting League shipping, too.”

  “Makes sense. No imperial navy to worry about up here.”

  “That may have been a factor, I suppose. In any case, it all went bad shortly after. I hear he cleaned out a ship flying Marsh Daisy pennants, and the Brotherhood took exception. They went to work chasing down some of Wyr’s shoreside collaborators, and someone taken in the net just happened to know where Sprayborne was laired up that season. Brotherhood sells the information on to the Chancellery and the League goes in heavy. Lots of dead pirates, but Wyr gets taken alive, to be made an example of and—”

  “Still don’t see,” Klithren broke in, “what the blue fuck any of this has got to do with us.”

  “That’s because you’re drunk.” Ringil took the rum bottle and placed it strategically on his side of the table. Finished his drink and set his glass down upended. “I need a diversion while I get into Trelayne and bring out my friends. I want the city in flames, and I can’t spare the men or the time to do it myself.”

  “And you think some broken-down failure of a pirate’s going to do it for you?” Klithren wagged his head solemnly back and forth. “Uh-uh, no way. You find some way to cut Wyr free, you really think he’s going to pick up a cutlass for you and try to storm the city? Forget it. He’s going to shake your hand, pick your pocket, and then fuck off faster than a paid whore. He’ll head right into the marsh and disappear. That’s if he can still stand up, because from what I’ve heard, they don’t feed them all that well out there aboard the hulks.”

  Ringil eyed the other man coldly. “You ever have a family, Klithren?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Well, turns out Wyr did. Wife, daughter, couple of sons. None of them all that old. They got taken along with everybody else when the League forces stormed Sprayborne’s layup. And you know just how fucking good the scum up at the Chancellery is at meting out punishment to those who transgress.”

  It went black and hammering through his heart and arteries as he spoke, the sudden-stirring memory of Jelim’s death, and perhaps Klithren saw something of it in his eyes, too, because the mercenary grew more soberly quiet.

  “They get the cage?”

  “The wife and eldest son did.” Ringil locked it down with an effort, but the same shuddering force went on pulsing behind his eyes with the metronome calm of his words. “Daughter and the other son got lucky. There’s an ordinance about executing children younger than twelve by impalement. Up at the law courts, they call it holding the spike.”

  Klithren nodded. “They have that in Hinerion, too.”

  “So. Sharkmaster Wyr is taken in the company of his five-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter to the Eastern Gate, where they all witness the impalement of Wyr’s wife and eldest son. They’re then taken to Sprayborne, whose masts are still intact at this point, and Wyr gets to watch his other son and his daughter hoisted up in cages onto the mainsail spar, where they will be left to die of thirst or exposure, whichever gets them first. And he’s imprisoned below, so he can hear them calling for their mother until they die.” Ringil built a shrug. It felt like he was wearing plate across his shoulders. “I imagine they would have liked to hang the mother and other son up there, too, so Wyr could hear their screams. But those cages are heavy and hard to move, and the Chancellery law lords, well, those fine nobles in their house of justice have always had a strong pragmatic streak.”

  Klithren said nothing. Gil breathed in deep. Noticed his teeth were gritted, loosened his jaw, and breathed out. He gave the other man a tight smile.

  “You say Sharkmaster Wyr, once freed, will turn tail and flee into the marsh. I beg to differ.”

  THEY RAISED THE NORTH GERGIS COAST NOT LONG AFTER NIGHTFALL. Shortly after, the lookout aboard Dragon’s Demise spotted the faintest trace of a reddish glow against the sky forward to port. There was really only one thing that it could be. The call went up and signal lanterns flickered ship to ship—journey’s end sighted. Seemed Lal Nyanar had managed to plot and hold a pretty steady course after all.

  Unless he missed by five hundred miles and that’s the lights of Lanatray we’re looking at.

  But Ringil knew, as he stood on the foredeck and watched the smeared charcoal line at the horizon, that it wasn’t Lanatray, and that Nyanar was right on course. Lanatray was tiny by comparison to Trelayne, and shielded from the direct ocean by a long granite bluff—you wouldn’t spot the glow of her lights until you were nearly swimming distance out. And anyway—

  You can feel it, can’t you, black mage.

  That’s Home out there, sitting just under the horizon like grave dirt under your nails, and you can feel it calling.

  Dragon’s Demise came about a couple of degrees and pointed her prow at the glow on the sky. Behind him at the ship’s helm, he heard Nyanar calling the order to run colors. Gil put a krinzanz twig he’d rolled earlier to his lips, willed it absently to life with the sketch of a burning glyph drawn in the air. He drew the harsh-tasting smoke down and held it there while the krin stole icily from his lungs into his veins. He leaned on the rail, breathed the smoke back out, and waited for Trelayne to show herself.

  The line of the coast thickened, grew visibly irregular. Cloud shredded apart off the scimitar gleam of the band, let in a low silvery light. Before long, you could start to make out the rise of hills along the shore, the textured detail of forest canopies and farmed fields, the mineral glint of escarpments and cliffs. The broad, familiar arms of the Trel delta spread to beckon him in and there, at the eastern extremity, the clustered lights of the city glimmered into view. He plumed smoke out into the wind, watched as it was snatched away again. Nodded at the lights as if in greeting.

  Here I am again, you murderous whore. Just can’t give you up.

  Two long, lean hulls ahead on the swells—privateer caravels riding picket for the estuary gap, clear notice of the war in progress and precautions taken accordingly. Ringil sensed the exact moment they were spotted, could almost see in his mind’s eye the sudden scramble to action stations aboard both vessels. Faint cries and yells, and a stampede of feet across decking drifted to his ears across the still night air. He couldn’t be sure if it was all
just his imagination at work, or some stealthy new reach of the ikinri ‘ska. In any case, as he watched, one of the League ships came rapidly about and swung their way. He straightened up, flipped the last half inch of his twig over the rail, and headed for the companionway. Time to lend Nyanar some moral support.

  As he walked down the main deck, he tilted his head back to where the yellow and black snake’s tongue pennants now fluttered at each mast tip.

  Wonder when they’ll spot those.

  Should sober them up a bit when they do.

  To anyone with seasoned seafaring eyes, Dragon’s Demise was unmistakably an imperial vessel, but she was flying Trelayne colors, big and bold at the mainmast, and the League man-of-war he’d commandeered was right behind them, with Sea Eagle’s Daughter bringing up the rear and also flagged for Trelayne. You’d have to be pretty stupid not to read all of that for what it was—triumphant capture of Empire shipping, and the eagerly awaited next chapter in the privateer success story that must have begun when Pride of Yhelteth and her attendant captor vessels showed up a few days earlier. They’d be all set to cheer these new captives into harbor—until someone spotted that yellow and black.

  He met Klithren at the foot of the companionway to the helm deck. The mercenary looked hungover and shaky on his feet, which Ringil supposed he more than likely was. Pretty much an ideal state of affairs, too, given what was coming next.

  “Ready?” Gil asked him.

  “I already fucking told you I was.”

  “Good man.” He clapped Klithren hard on the chest and shoulder, grinned as he saw the mercenary’s face wobble in the gloom. “They’re not going to risk any closer than hailing distance, so it should be easy enough to sell. Just stick to what we agreed and try to look … well, no—you already do. Just keep it up.”

  He climbed the companionway to the sound of retching at his back as Klithren threw up.

  Lal Nyanar came and peered disdainfully down over the helm deck rail as Ringil climbed up to meet him.

  “That man has been drunk all day,” he sniffed. “What you see in him as an ally, I simply cannot grasp.”

  Gil stepped off the companionway. “He’s been in a few places you haven’t.”

  “Is that supposed to explain the drinking?”

  “It explains why I want him as an ally. Are you ready?”

  Nyanar glanced up at the pennants they were flying. “As we’ll ever be. It remains to be seen if this scheme of yours will work, though.”

  Ringil, preparing to hand out some straightforward reassurance, felt mischief sparkle through him instead. It was the call of impending risk, he knew, the itch to action—and a long building irritation with Nyanar that finally flared to life. He put on a breezy grin.

  “But my lord Nyanar! That’s what gives life its savor, is it not? Where would we be if the future were always known?”

  “We’d be back home in Yhelteth,” said Nyanar sourly. “Avoiding madcap quests and desperate jailbreak schemes and deceptions.”

  I am home, you soggy-faced, entitled little prick, he barely stopped himself saying. You think it took northern sorcery to make me the way I am now? You think it took a war? Those things were tonic compared to what came before. Desperation and deception were waiting for me at the nursery door, took me by either hand as I walked out into my youth, have been my constant companions since.

  He kept his grin with an effort. “Home we might be, but we’d come up a little short on tales of glory to regale our grandchildren with.”

  The captain’s mouth crimped. “I see no glory in—”

  “Signal!” A bawled cry from the forward lookout. “Signaling—heave to and await escort!”

  Nyanar looked queasy, almost a match for Klithren’s face earlier. He met Ringil’s eyes with an expression that verged on accusing. Gil nodded.

  “This scheme of mine appears to be working out,” he said amiably.

  CHAPTER 41

  he shock of the scream held them rigid. It hung in the air around them like freezing fog, even as the echoes ran out across the ruined city. Archeth felt the breath stop in her throat, felt a cold hand cup her at the nape of the neck. The wash of sandalwood and aniseed in the wind. She met Egar’s eyes across the gathering of men, and he nodded, something suddenly old and weary in his face. She’d heard him say the word, just like everyone else, but still, everything in her wanted to shake her head in dumb denial. Their luck just could not be this bad.

  The cry repeated, redoubled in force.

  “It can smell us,” said the Dragonbane grimly.

  He rounded on the men. “Don’t just fucking stand there! I told you, it’s a dragon. What do you want, count its fucking teeth? Get back in those ruins. Drop your gear inside and climb. Come on, move it!”

  They came awake, like statues summoned to life. Hurried into the forlorn façades and crags of stone behind them, casting fearful glances back. She watched them go as if in a dream, had time for an obscure sympathy as she remembered the numb shock of her own first encounter in the war. The fading echoes of that cry, chasing her all the way back …

  “You, too, Archidi.” He was at her shoulder, grabbing, yanking her loose of her terrors, chivvying her to life. “Come on, you’ve been here before. You know the drill. Let’s go.”

  He shepherded her toward the nearest gap in the architecture, shoved her through, into dim light and a cavern chaos of rubble and collapsed flooring. She heard him follow her in. They stood there a moment in the cradling gloom, amid a scattering of discarded packs and other gear—the men had followed Egar’s orders to the letter. She stared up to where a couple of pale faces peered back down at them. Listened to the noises as the rest of the men scrambled about elsewhere in the ruins, seeking position. Outside, the dragon shrieked once more. She added her pack to the pile, turned to face the Dragonbane, found him at her back, closer than she’d thought.

  “So how—”

  “In a minute.” He shrugged off his own pack, nodded upward. “Let’s get some height first.”

  They clambered up through the slumped and shattered levels, spotted more of the company crouched and huddled where the remaining buttresses and beams of the ruins looked strongest. Men nodded and bowed to her as she inched past, but their eyes skipped repeatedly back to Egar as he climbed behind her. She heard them murmuring, and among those who were speaking Tethanne, she heard the name more than once, like an invocation, like a warding spell of power—

  Dragonbane …

  They came out finally on a section of flooring twenty feet up that had somehow not given way. There was a row of tall, narrow windows to the front. Archeth crept forward, ascertained that the floor was solid, and crouched by the nearest of the openings. Little twinges of pain along the stitches in her wound—she grimaced and tried to ease her posture. Egar came behind her, hampered a little by his grip on the staff lance. He joined her at the window, craned to peer out.

  “So how do we do this?” she asked quietly.

  “Glad you asked me that.” He didn’t look at her, was still glued to the view outside. “Give me a minute, let’s just see what we’re dealing w—”

  Voice blotted abruptly out. He sank to sitting, back to the wall. Drew breath in over his teeth, shot her a glance.

  “Go on, take a look.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t want to miss this.”

  She crammed past him to the window. The sea of rubble below them, tilting and sloping down toward the sunken Kiriath structures beyond. A frozen landscape of shards and shades of gray and—

  Motion!

  She almost recoiled from the window; it was a physical effort not to do it. Her heart clutched and jumped in her chest.

  It had taken on the same mottled gray tones as the landscape. If it hadn’t been moving, she might have missed it entirely at first glance. But it was moving. It clambered effortlessly across the rubble, came pacing zigzag up the slope toward them, and it was grinning. Scimitar-fanged mouth, loose and open
to let the tongue flicker out and taste the air. Recessed eyes, high on the long curved head, a crest of folded webbing and spines bristling behind the skull, the colossal echo of the same appendage on a warrior caste lizard, but this crest had to be twice longer than the Dragonbane was tall. Powerful, taloned forelimbs lifting head and chest just off the ground, so it seemed the beast was sniffing for them like a hound. Flexed arch of dorsal plates and back and belly you could have driven a cart and horses under. Haunches, each rising and curving the size of Pride of Yhelteth’s mainsail running full before the wind. Finally the tail, tapered and spike-ended, half the length of the body again and thicker than a man’s trunk even at the thinnest point.

  It raised its head as she watched, lifted almost fully back on its haunches. The crest flared up and out, spread the width of a palace gateway either side of the skull. She caught a fresh blast of sandalwood. The dragon screamed at the desolate gray sky, and Archeth felt the cry through the stonework she was leaned against. Felt the pit of her belly vibrate.

  “Ain’t she a fucking beauty?” breathed the Dragonbane, back at her side. “Look at the size of that bitch. Gil’s going to be sorry he wasn’t here for this.”

  “So what do we do?” she hissed.

  “Hard to say. I had a cliff and a pissed-off faggot with a Kiriath broadsword to work with last time.”

  “Well.” She gestured helplessly. “Can we lure it back to the pit, maybe? Trick it into falling down there?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “It just climbed out of the pit, Archidi. I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  The dragon screamed again. The sound rang off the walls around her, rang in her ears. It filled the space inside the ruin like water. Egar nodded.