Red Tide

by Marc Turner

  “Hold your fire!” Galantas shouted, turning toward the section of battlements where the missile had come from. The faces of the guards there mirrored his disbelief. One man was frozen in the act of raising a bottle to his lips. Two had half drawn their swords, but none were aiming a weapon into the yard. A woman with a crossbow at her feet held her hands up as if to deny responsibility. Then her eyes widened at something behind Galantas, and she crouched to pick up the weapon.

  From over Galantas’s shoulder, a wave of black sorcery flashed toward the battlements, crackling like a hundred tindersparks and darkening the air in its wake. A man on the walkway flung himself aside, but the woman who’d gone for the crossbow was engulfed. The blackness clung to her as she fell screaming into the yard. Her flesh dissolved, and by the time she hit the ground she was naught but a sack of meat and bones that landed on the flagstones with a wet crack. She disintegrated into dust that was picked up and carried about the yard on a wind whipped up by the sorcery’s passage.

  The battlements themselves suffered a similar fate. The white stones crumbled to powder and were shredded by the breeze. Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, a section of ramparts twenty paces long disappeared, and the gap grew larger as the stonework at either end continued to melt. A guard sitting with his legs hanging over the bailey tried to scramble up and away, only for the walkway to dissolve beneath him. He toppled into the yard. Another Islander half scrambled, half crawled toward the guardhouse before a second volley of sorcery hit him.

  “Hold your fire!” Galantas shouted again, this time at the Augeran mage.

  Swords clashed behind him, and it dawned on him suddenly how much trouble he was in. The Islanders in the fortress might outnumber the Augerans, but the bulk of the defenders were on the battlements, and most of them—on this section of wall, at least—had already been removed from the fight. Galantas spun round. The stone-skin warrior with the golden tattoos was leading a charge against the guards at the gate. Ostari, meanwhile, had moved to engage Qinta, while another of the Augerans was attacking Faloman’s men.

  Leaving the route to the Great Hall open. Tempting, but Galantas would not retreat. The legend he had created didn’t step back in the face of the enemy. Not a single pace.

  Even as he drew his sword, he was thinking about the bolt that had hit Eremo. Had his father been behind it? Could that be why Dresk had refused to let Galantas enter the Great Hall? Because he’d wanted him outside when the commander was shot, and thus on hand when the stone-skins retaliated? It wouldn’t be the first time Dresk had tried to engineer Galantas’s death. There was that incident when Galantas had been set on by “thieves” in a Karalatian alley, then that “intelligence” about a Londellian trader that had turned out to be a warship. Would Dresk have risked war with the Augerans, though, just to rid himself of Galantas? And before he’d had a chance to spend the twenty thousand talents he’d acquired?

  Ostari drove Qinta back with a series of lightning cuts and thrusts. Galantas moved to flank his kinsman. It seemed unlikely Qinta would need help dispatching a lone opponent, but suddenly Ostari was stepping past the Second and bringing his elbow round to hammer into Qinta’s temple.

  He toppled wordlessly.

  Galantas sprang forward and aimed a cut to Ostari’s midsection, only for the stone-skin to dance out of range. Galantas thought the man would retreat to join his kinsmen around Eremo, but instead he pressed forward again with a smile that said he was keen to avenge the insult done to him over the Falcon boy. Galantas glanced at Eremo. Through a gap in the Augeran shields, Galantas saw the commander’s back arch as he coughed up bloody froth. His wound might be a mortal one, but for the time being he lived, which meant the stone-skins’ first concern would be to get him to safety. That being so, Galantas didn’t need to defeat Ostari to survive. He only had to hold him off until the Augerans withdrew.

  A fact he was quickly grateful for as the stone-skin attacked. Ostari’s sword seemed to come at him from everywhere at once, and it took all Galantas’s skill to keep the questing blade at bay. His foe’s style of fighting was strangely stilted, his sword arm jerking this way and that while his body remained largely still. There should have been little power behind his swings, yet each blow landed on Galantas’s blade with the weight of a headsman’s stroke. He hadn’t faced an opponent like this since a raid on a Corinian merchantman when he’d fought a Belliskan knight wielding a sword as tall as the warrior himself. A feint from Ostari brought Galantas’s blade low, and he only just recovered in time to block the real thrust to his chest. Still his opponent’s sword deflected off Galantas’s weapon to score a nick to his arm.

  Behind, Eremo was being lifted onto a shield and carried toward the guardhouse. Not much longer to hold on, for Ostari wouldn’t let himself be left behind.

  Then a noise like the buzz of a needlefly sounded, and a crossbow bolt buried itself in the stone-skin’s sword arm. He grunted as his blade was jarred from his hand, but he immediately rolled and scooped the weapon up in his left hand instead. Galantas had no idea whether Ostari was equally proficient with both hands, nor did he have any wish to find out. He kept his sword down to signal he wouldn’t press the attack.

  Ostari did not react to the gesture. He didn’t look relieved. Hells, he didn’t even look in pain.

  But he didn’t seem in any hurry to renew their duel either.

  Over the Augeran’s shoulder, Galantas saw the corpses of Faloman’s men on the ground. The defenders at the guardhouse were also down, and the gates had been thrown open. Beyond, the Rubyholt crowd had vanished. Eremo was carried into the shadow of the guardhouse. Four of his kinsmen protected him with upraised shields. On the section of wall to Galantas’s left, a handful of Rubyholters were aiming crossbows into the yard. A bolt struck an Augeran shield, and another one pinged off the ground beside Ostari.

  The stone-skin’s gaze didn’t leave Galantas.

  “Hold your fire!” Galantas shouted to the guards. It was too soon to think of healing the rift with the Augerans, but at least he could send a message that he’d had no part in the attack.

  Ostari was now the backmarker. One of his kinsmen called out to him in their native tongue—telling him to withdraw, no doubt. With the stone-skins on the move, some of the Islanders on the walls had found the courage to start descending to the yard. Ostari had but moments before his line of retreat was blocked. He backpedaled. There were no taunts, no empty promises of revenge, but his look conveyed all that needed to be said.

  The guards jeered at the Augerans as if they’d driven off the enemy by strength of arms. Galantas was the only Islander left standing in the bailey, and he stepped forward. The drama was done, might as well claim it as his own, so he raised his sword.

  The jeers turned to cheers.

  As the stricken Eremo was carried clear of the guardhouse, another bolt clanged off a shield.

  “Hold your fire!” Galantas called again. How many times must he give the order before it was obeyed?

  Even as he spoke, another missile flitted through the shadows. It took Ostari in the ankle. The Augeran gave a strangled curse. He tried to take a backward step, but his injured leg went from under him, and he crumpled to the flagstones.

  His kinsmen couldn’t have seen him fall, for no one turned to help.

  An instant later the other stone-skins were gone.

  PART II

  CITY OF SNAKES

  CHAPTER 7

  FROM THE prow of the boat, Ebon watched the last rays of light chase across the waves. As the sun sank beneath the horizon, shadows gathered in the water. Upon a bluff inland, a dozen hooded riders galloped south along the coastal road as if seeking to keep pace with Ebon’s boat. On its wave of water-magic, though, the craft traveled at a speed no horse could match.

  The elderly sorcerer responsible for that wave, Gunnar, sat on the rear thwart looking out to sea. His dark-rimmed eyes bore testimony to his weariness. On the journey along the River Amber to Merceri
e, the prince had demanded a speed that had tested the man’s reserves to the limit. Soon, though, Ebon would be able to take up the strain, for over the course of the last few days he had studied the signature of the other man’s power until he was able to reproduce it. Ebon’s mastery over the waves was a fraction of Gunnar’s, but at least they could now take turns propelling the boat. One might have thought the mage would have welcomed the help, but it wasn’t gratitude Ebon saw in his eyes when their gazes met. It was apprehension at the prince’s abilities. The same apprehension Ebon had seen in his own father’s face a week ago when Ebon had set about healing him.

  Before the attack on Majack, Ebon’s history of spirit-possession had made people regard him suspiciously. Now they had something else to fear about him. And all because of a power he had never asked for—a power he had acquired in the hope of helping the very kinsmen who now shrank from him. But he wouldn’t have to endure their distrust much longer. Only until his father’s health was fully restored. Then he would leave Galitia in case the Fangalar were looking for him. As to where he would go, though …

  That wasn’t a question he expected to have to answer anytime soon. After he found Lamella and Rendale—if indeed he did find them—his next task would be to look in on Parolla’s mother, Aliana, when she was reborn. At the back of his mind, he could sense Parolla and Luker, as he had been able to sense the goddess Galea after they struck their bargain in the Forest of Sighs. Both were scores of leagues from his position, Parolla to the north, Luker to the west. Yet when the time came to contact them, he knew he’d be able to do so with a mere thought. Strange that he didn’t share a similar connection with Lamella or Rendale, but perhaps that was because he hadn’t seen them since he inherited his powers. Perhaps if he ever found them again, they would never be more than a thought away too.

  If. Such a big word for only having two letters.

  He shook his head. No, he wouldn’t let himself think Lamella was dead. Now that he had given up the kingship, she was his whole purpose. He needed her. Years ago, when the spirits had invaded his mind, she’d been the only thing that had stopped him slipping away. The Vamilians were now gone, yet they’d left some mark on him, some malaise of the spirit that if left unchecked, might drag him down again.

  But perhaps that malaise had nothing to do with the Vamilians. Perhaps it was just a result of the things he’d witnessed in Majack on his return from the Forest of Sighs. The palace gates had held where the city gates had not. When the Book of Lost Souls was destroyed, the undead’s strings had been cut, leaving piles of bodies tangled about the palace walls. Worse still had been the hollowness in the eyes of the survivors as they looked for friends among the corpses. Silence had covered the city—a silence that, even after the trappings of life eventually returned, would no doubt linger long beneath the clamor and the bustle.

  Where are you, Lamella?

  If she was alive, he would find her. Gilgamar, Kansar, Airey: there were only so many ports that Ocarn’s ship could have put in at. Ebon would try them all. Even if he tracked her down, though, how long would he be able to keep her? If the Fangalar were hunting him, she’d be in danger while she was with him. Was he searching for her just so he could give her up again? Did he believe things would get better if they were reunited? The last six years had been shades of gray, and when things were gray that long, you had to wonder if they would ever wash out to white.

  Ebon’s gaze shifted to Vale, sitting on the oar bench with his eyes closed. Without his chain mail the timeshifter looked older somehow. More frail. But his presence, as always, served to still some of Ebon’s doubts. Duty, the prince had come to realize, was like a dozen leashes around your neck, all tugging in different directions. When you moved your head to ease the pull from one, you just increased the pull from another. Ebon had paid a heavy price for duty—but the Endorian had paid a heavier one still. A decade ago, when Vale first pledged himself to Ebon’s father, he had looked ten years Ebon’s senior. Now he appeared twice that, for by speeding the rate at which he moved through time, he condemned himself to age faster than those around him. And all of those years lost in the service of a people not his own.

  “What are you doing here, Vale?” Ebon whispered.

  The timeshifter must have heard him, for he opened his eyes. “Where else would I be?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  Vale considered the question, then shrugged. “I gave an oath.”

  “An oath I would have released you from long ago, if you had asked. Maybe I should do it now.”

  “And maybe you’re not the one who gets to choose.”

  Ebon held the other man’s gaze. He wasn’t buying this talk of oaths. Ebon’s father had given Vale to the prince as a bodyguard four years ago, after Ebon’s first ill-fated excursion into the Forest of Sighs. But in the intervening time, the Endorian had become the closest thing Ebon had to a friend. That friendship cut both ways, though: it imposed responsibilities on Ebon just as it did the timeshifter, even if they were responsibilities of a different kind.

  “Are you worried I’m losing my edge?” Vale asked. His voice was pitched low so it wouldn’t carry to Gunnar behind.

  The prince stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “It’s a problem with timeshifters. As they get old, their reflexes start to dull, so they use their power more to make up for it. So they get old even quicker, use their abilities more … It becomes a downward spiral. In Endoria, people are alert to the danger. A soldier reaches forty, he gets retired whether he likes it or not.”

  “And how old are you?”

  Vale gave one of his rare smiles. “Wish I knew. Ain’t easy keeping track of your age when you’re shifting through time every other day.”

  “I’ve always wondered about your people. Why aren’t they ruling the world with their abilities?”

  “Who says we want to? Anyhow, it ain’t as simple as you see it. One on one, there ain’t many who can hold their own against a timeshifter. But wars ain’t fought one on one. Put us in the field, and we die as easy as the next soldiers when the sorcery starts flying. Plus there ain’t no more appetite for war in Endoria than there is anywhere else. Less, maybe. When a soldier goes on campaign, he can be away for months or years. That’s hard, but it’s harder still when you’re shifting through time and you get home to find you’re older than the ones you left behind.”

  “And is there someone waiting for you to go back?” Ebon had asked Vale the same question before, of course, but the timeshifter had always shrugged it aside.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  Was that why he had left his homeland all those years ago? To escape the memory of someone he’d lost? Ebon couldn’t deny his curiosity, but he knew better than to push. Vale would tell him if he wanted him to know.

  The Endorian turned away from the sun so his features were in shadow. After a while he said, “There was a war going on. Not much more than border skirmishes really, but the Alosi were proving headstrong enough that the Elders voted to give them a touch of the whip. The enemy was operating out of a forest on our western border, and a dozen squads were sent in to clear them out. Problem was, the wran in charge of my squad had lost a daughter to the raiders the week before. The Elders, in their wisdom, didn’t think to stand him down.” Vale’s voice was barely audible over the rustle of water beneath the bow. “The other squads hit their targets and pulled back. We went on.

  “We lost a couple of men, but the wran didn’t retreat. One of those who died was his second, else he might have been forced to call a halt. You probably reckon timeshifting’s a gift when the swords are drawn, but it can be a curse too. Because when the man across from you is that much slower, it stops being a fight and turns into slaughter. We all got our arms red. Most of the squad had been with the wran for years, so they weren’t going to say anything. Even when we were through enemy lines, he didn’t stop. Says he wants the Alosi to know how it feels to lose a daughter. Says it’s only fai
r. Couple of us tried to put an end to it then, but the wran called our bluff. He knew anyone who ratted on him would be putting a noose around their own neck. So one night I left camp during my watch and didn’t look back.”

  Perhaps Ebon should have been disturbed by the story, but instead he found himself wondering what he would have done in the wran’s position—how he would react now if he found out Lamella and Rendale were dead. “And you’ve never been home since?”

  “Home to what? If the squad kept together, best I could hope for was a charge of desertion. If I came clean on what happened, maybe the Elders would’ve gone easy on me.” Vale’s gaze was hard and level. “But then word of what happened would have got out to everyone else too.”

  Including the people he felt he could no longer go back to? “Is it better they think you dead?”

  “I thought so at the time.”

  “But now?”

  “Now it’s too late to matter.” Vale made a gesture with one hand to indicate the subject was closed. “What’s the story between you and Ocarn? The ambassador said you two had history.”

  Ebon had been waiting for that question since Mercerie. “It happened a few months before you arrived in Majack—before I went into the Forest of Sighs the first time.” Strange how he divided his life now into everything that came before that expedition and everything that came after. “My father was in Mercerie, trying to build bridges with the padishah, and he took me with him. I was only seventeen. I disliked Ocarn the moment I met him. Almost as much as he disliked me, in fact. He was a prince, I was a prince, that seemed reason enough for us to butt heads.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?”

  “Sadly, no. I am sure you won’t be surprised to hear there was a woman involved. Ocarn’s sister, in fact. She and I got on too well for Ocarn’s liking, and it ended with her inviting me back to her room. Foolishly I agreed to go. Nothing happened between us, and I like to think nothing would have done. But Ocarn made sure of it by storming in. He accused me of dishonoring his sister, yet he tarnished her honor more than I had by shouting our indiscretion from the rooftops. And by demanding I face him in a duel. His father stepped in to stop it, but the damage had already been done—”