by Marc Turner
Noon hissed through his teeth. “What is he?” he asked Amerel.
She’d been pondering the same question. A necromancer of singular power might have survived his wounds, but death-magic didn’t explain the portcullis, or the sense of incongruity Amerel got just from looking at the man. Then a memory came to her of her time in Kal three years ago, sipping ganja around a fire of bones and talking to the soulcaster Thorl. He’d told her of a peasant girl in a village in the White Mountains. A girl with a rare ability who had unwittingly killed her parents after an argument over something no less trivial than the way she wore her hair. Killed them in her sleep. Amerel had thought the tale fanciful at the time, but now …
“A dreamweaver,” she said to Noon, watching Scarface’s reaction for confirmation. “A man who can make his dreams manifest in the waking world.”
The Augeran sketched a bow. “Hex is my name,” he said in heavily accented common tongue. A hollow note to his tone signified his voice was being projected from somewhere else. A sending. “But please, no need for you to introduce yourselves. I already know all about you from our friend Talet here. Hee hee!”
Noon looked at Amerel. “You’re telling me we’re in his dream?” He glanced about the room. “So how come I can still see this house?”
“Because his dream doesn’t replace our reality, it overlaps it. Here, we are subject to both.”
Noon gestured to the portcullis blocking the doorway behind. “This is real?”
It was Hex who answered. “Quite real, I assure you. You wish to put it to the test? Please, be my guest.”
Noon wasted no time striding to the gate. Crouching, he took a grip on the lowest horizontal bar and lifted. The portcullis did not budge. Veins stood out in the Breaker’s neck as he tried again. Still no movement. Amerel was tempted to add her efforts to his, but Hex wouldn’t have invited them to try if there had been any hope of succeeding.
The stone-skin hopped from one foot to the other. “Sooner lift the Dragon Gate than that barrier, poor fools. We’re in my dream, yes, and here I make the rules.”
Not all the rules, Amerel knew. Fragments of her conversation with Thorl were coming back to her. Dreamweavers, the soulcaster had said, could only add to the material world, not take from it, so while the stone-skin could conjure up any number of gates to cage her with, he could not make the floor disappear, or vanish the ceiling to expose her to the elements. How that might help, she did not know. But learning the rules governing Hex’s power was a necessary first step to breaking them.
Even before that, though, she needed to determine how far the stone-skin’s dreamworld extended. Escape that world, and she would escape his influence. She looked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. A pity she hadn’t thought to make a break for them when Noon let fly with his knives, but an opportunity might yet present itself—
Three more portcullises dropped down across the windows, striking the floor with a crack, crack, crack that Amerel felt through her sandals.
Hex grinned.
My, aren’t we pleased with ourselves.
She needed to buy herself time to think, so she pointed at Talet’s corpse and said, “If he told you who we are, he must have told you it was us who shot your commander. So why can I hear bells ringing? Why are you attacking the city?”
The stone-skin lifted Talet’s corpse from its chair as if it weighed no more than a scarecrow. Putting one arm behind the spy’s back, he grabbed one hand and struck a pose like they were dancing partners. “Why not?”
“You must have thought Dresk could be of use to you, else you wouldn’t have approached him in the first place.”
Hex led Talet twirling about the room. The spy’s lolling head bounced off his shoulder. “Thought he could, yes. Then we met him. What use is an ally who can’t even protect us in his own fortress?”
“More use than an enemy, surely.”
“But an enemy for how long? Listen!”
Through the doorway at Amerel’s back, she could hear the tolling of bells together with the thrum and clamor of a population fleeing. Then above that, she caught a distant ring of steel on steel, a muted scream. The attack was already under way! But how could that be? The bells should have meant the stone-skins were in the outer isles. How could they have made it here so fast?
Hex nodded. “Right now Dresk is discovering his precious warning system is not all that he said. Within a few bells, this city will be ours, and the warlord and his clan either scattered or dead. Hee hee!”
“And when the other tribes unite against you?”
Hex gave her a hurt look. “Please. I may be a stranger here, but even I know the clans are as fractured as the lands under their sway. And when we recover our gold, we’ll have twenty thousand reasons to keep it that way.”
Amerel frowned. She’d probed Hex’s thoughts with her Will—the gentlest touch so as not to draw his attention—and found his mind too strong for all but the most inconsequential manipulation. “So, with Dresk gone, you can pick the other clans off one at a time? Is that your plan? Or do you just want to make sure they don’t interfere when you attack Erin Elal?”
Hex smiled a sly smile, then changed his jaunty step to a more sedate affair.
“Why come all this way to pick a fight with us?” Amerel pressed. “According to our texts, it was you who attacked us all those years ago. What reason did we give you to come back for more?”
“You really don’t know?”
“You sent a delegation to Dresk, why not to Avallon? You’ve given us no threats, no demands. What do you want?”
The scarred man ignored the question. “It seems we both have much to relearn about the other.” He halted his dance and released Talet’s corpse. It crumpled to the floor. “In Dresk’s fortress, I detected your power, yet didn’t recognize it for a Guardian’s. Were it not for your dreams—”
“My dreams?” Amerel cut in.
“Of course, your dreams—so much like my own.” A wave of Hex’s hand, and the light in the room started to fade. The windows clouded over with grime. Speckled shadows spread like mold across the floor. “I can share others’ dreams without their knowledge, you see. Or sometimes with their knowledge, if that is my decree. Rarely, though, are someone’s dreams so strong that they leak into their waking hours.” He studied her. “And the cause of this … a Deliverer’s powers?” Behind him, the desk and chair became blackened and warped, and the gates over the windows darkened to rust as if a century had passed in the space of a few heartbeats.
Amerel held his gaze. The freak thought he was in control here, but it wouldn’t take much to rob him of that illusion. Somewhere nearby he was sleeping, and the surest way to bring this nightmare to an end was to wake him from that slumber.
How was she supposed to locate his body, though, if she hadn’t found it earlier when she spirit-walked?
Gray-white slime leaked from the cracks in the walls, like brain matter from a cleft in a skull. The different trails joined before spreading outward to cover the walls in a gelatinous membrane that pulsed like a diseased womb. A hum reached Amerel’s ears, rising in pitch as needleflies drifted out from pocks in the flesh.
Hex cocked his head. “Whatever did you do to earn a Deliverer’s regard?”
Again Amerel kept her silence. She thought about Noon’s sorcerous globes. A firestorm or an earthquake unleashed within the confines of this room might give Hex a rude awakening. But would one of her Will-shields protect her from the blast? Plus what guarantee did she have that the stone-skin was sleeping in this house and not in a neighboring one?
The dreamweaver considered her before shrugging. “Keep your secrets, then. For now. In truth, the cause for the deed concerns me not, but rather the problem the Deliverer’s meddling begot. You see, he has left me with something of a challenge. Namely to think of a way to kill you that you have not already suffered. Hee hee!”
As the room continued to transform, Amerel felt an unfamiliar tickle
at the back of her throat. Was this fear? It was so long since she’d experienced the sensation she barely recognized it.
Hex said, “But hark at me, chattering on when it should be you doing the talking.”
“Talking?” Amerel said. “About what?”
“Oh, troop numbers and dispositions, the emperor’s favorite color. I’m sure you’ll think of something. The answers are of less interest to me than how long you are able to resist giving them.”
Bulges formed behind the rubbery walls, and the membranes split in sprays of gray muck to reveal a wooden torture rack, a butcher’s hook crusted with hair and dried blood, a winch and pulley linked by chains to—
Amerel tore her gaze away.
“Do you recognize this one?” Hex said, indicating a brass sarcophagus mounted on the wall. “The victim is locked inside and a fire lit below. In a matter of moments, the metal is aglow.” He sniffed the air. “Is that the aroma of its last occupant I smell?”
Dark memories leapt unbidden into Amerel’s mind. “If these things are meant to spook me, you forget, I’ve already seen them in the Deliverer’s dreams.”
“And because you’ve known pain before, you do not fear it now? If that were so, you would have welcomed your dreams, not hidden from them.” A man’s screams started up, along with the clanking of chains. The dreamweaver’s expression turned thoughtful. “Too much, yes? An overexuberant hand, and fear can quickly descend into farce.”
A whisper of steel sounded as Noon drew his swords. Fear made his voice sound brittle. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Boring you, am I?” The dreamweaver’s eyes glittered. “You should have said. Pray, let me try you with this instead.”
On the wall to Amerel’s left, a swelling like a boil formed. It grew from the size of a man’s head until it filled half the wall. Then it burst, and from it erupted …
Amerel’s heart thundered in her chest.
Spiders.
Hundreds of them.
* * *
Galantas was being hunted. Each time he looked over his shoulder he saw amid the crowds splashes of red from the cloaks of the chasing Honored. For the past quarter-bell he’d taken a winding course through the Rat District in an attempt to throw off his pursuers, yet they clung to his trail like dogs on a scent. If anything, they appeared to be closing the gap. They must have recognized him, and that meant there’d be no shaking them off. After Dresk, Galantas would be the scalp the Augerans prized the most. And to think he’d always considered notoriety to be a good thing.
This would never have happened if he’d fled inland. Odds were, the stone-skins didn’t have the numbers to press the attack beyond Bezzle’s borders, but Galantas couldn’t risk trapping himself on the island. Word of the Augeran raid would spread across the Isles. Tonight, the clan leaders would meet at the Hub to consider their response, and Galantas intended to be there. All he had to do was find a boat. That was why he was heading north through the city toward a strip of beach known as the Drift. At this time of day a handful of fishing boats were usually drawn up on the sand, just waiting to be borrowed.
The problem was, half of Bezzle seemed to have had the same idea. Most of the folk abroad were running in the same direction that he was, and there were only so many heels you could trip before people started noticing. He passed two men carrying a sideboard between them, and they stopped to point and swear at him like it was his fault the stone-skins were attacking. He lurched past, his breath sawing in his throat. Maybe he wasn’t as fit as he could be, but he’d been trying to cut down on this running-for-his-life business.
Nearly there now. Galantas could see the sea ahead. The flagstones gave way to a dirt track, then to sand. At the top of a dune, he looked down onto the Drift—
And stuttered to a halt, cursing.
The boats were gone. He could make out grooves where their keels had been dragged to the water. On the glittering sweep of the bay, he counted eight boats. All were crammed to the gunwales with Bezzlians. In the shallows a handful of folk watched the craft retreat as if they’d come to see off loved ones, while around them bobbed half a dozen corpses of people who had fought and failed to claim a place on the boats. The water about them was tinged red. The sharks would be here soon, if they weren’t already.
Galantas shaded his eyes and focused on the craft nearest to shore—a small fishing boat with a mast and oars. There were so many people on board it was a wonder it could float, and in the span of Galantas’s gaze he saw a wave strike the bow and unseat a man perched on the rail. As he toppled backward into the water, he grabbed one of the oars in an effort to stop himself being left behind. Angry shouts sounded as the boat slewed around.
That gave Galantas an idea.
He staggered down the face of the dune. The beach was littered with nets and scraps of wood, like detritus washed up from a shipwreck. As Galantas approached the surf, waterlogged sand sucked at his feet. He waded out until the waves reached his waist. Only then did he pause to look back the way he had come. There was no sign of his Augeran pursuers, but Qinta and Barnick were just a few paces behind. They were both panting. As Barnick reached Galantas, he shot him a look. They both knew what had to be done. Maybe Galantas should have spent longer agonizing over the choice, but he’d worry about massaging his conscience when he was safe and dry.
“Do it,” he said to Barnick. Then he gestured to the folk in the shallows. “Just give me a chance first to swim clear of this rabble.”
Barnick nodded.
Galantas dived into the waves. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the sea felt blessedly cool after the heat of the chase. It wasn’t easy swimming with one arm. Even with all the practice he’d had over the years, he kept rolling onto his side. The waves seemed to drag him back to shore faster than he could swim away from it. After a few dozen strokes he was done, and he started treading water. Over the crests of the breakers he saw snatches of the boat that was his target, its oars rising and falling in bright showers of spray. It was pulling away from him. His goal had never been to catch up to the craft, though. All he’d wanted was to put some distance between himself and the people on shore.
Qinta and Barnick drew up beside him. He looked once more at the boat.
“Now!” he said to Barnick.
Beneath the hull the sea swelled, and the craft was lifted into the air. It tipped to one side, pitching its passengers shrieking into the water—all except a bare-chested man who managed to grab the boat’s mast with one hand. For a count of five he hung on, feet kicking. Then he lost his grip and fell onto the head of a woman just resurfacing. The now-empty boat settled on the sea and went shooting off on a wave of water-magic before its former passengers could climb back on board.
It reached Galantas in moments. As it approached, the wave beneath it receded, but its momentum still carried it into him. It bumped against him gently like a horse nuzzling its master. He wrapped his arm over the gunwale, too tired to clamber inside.
Qinta was first over the rail. He hauled Galantas dripping into the bow.
The boat rocked beneath them.
Shouts came from the bay and the shore. Swimmers thrashed toward them from both directions, yet none would get to them in time. A lone sandal lay in the bow. Qinta tossed it over the side just as Barnick scrambled aboard, his hair plastered across his face. The oars were still in their rowlocks, and Galantas pulled them free and stowed them in the bottom of the boat.
“Let’s go,” he said to Barnick.
The craft sped off on a curling course that took it wide of the swimmers in the bay.
Screams from the beach marked the arrival of the Augerans who had been hunting Galantas. Finding their quarry flown, they took out their frustrations on the unfortunates left behind, and a similar fate no doubt awaited the erstwhile passengers of this boat. If they had known of the danger Galantas was facing, though, they would have been more than willing to lay down their lives for him. And if they weren’t, they damned w
ell should have been. He was their lord now, after all.
Or soon would be.
He swung his gaze to the Old Town. The gates of Dresk’s fortress had been shut, and a handful of guards manned the walls. Was Dresk still inside? Almost certainly, since the fool couldn’t leave his gold behind any more than he could take it with him. Galantas pursed his lips. Strange. He’d been waiting for this day for as long as he could remember, yet instead of feeling triumph, he found himself wondering what his father was doing. Sitting in the Great Hall, perhaps, sensing the stone-skin noose tightening about him? Or looking out over the bay from the battlements, wishing he were in Galantas’s boat?
For an absurd moment, Galantas wanted to turn the craft about and go back for him. But even if he could have rescued his father, that would only have brought more shame on the man. Galantas steeled himself. This was the father who had turned Galantas’s brother against him. Who had dishonored the memory of Galantas’s mother—his own wife—by spreading rumors of her infidelity so he could cast doubt on Galantas’s birthright. Galantas should have let him die all those years ago in the Raptor raid. It would have been better for both of them.
He looked toward the harbor. Four Augeran ships bobbed at quayside amid the dozens of Rubyholt vessels. Among them was the Eternal, its metal hull gleaming in the sunlight. The waterfront was patrolled by red- and black-cloaked figures, and Galantas’s expression darkened. Hundreds of Islanders would die today, but it was the loss of the ships that most troubled him—
“We got trouble,” Qinta said, pointing.
A short distance to the south, a two-masted Augeran galleon rode on a wave of water-magic. As it neared the islets at the mouth of the harbor, it picked up speed.
It was coming straight for them.
* * *
Karmel slowed as she approached the corner around which the Augeran squad had disappeared. In all the time she and Caval had been following, the soldiers had yet to check their backtrail. That was no excuse for carelessness on the Chameleons’ part, though, for one slip-up could cost them their lives. Caval swung wide to give himself a view along the street in case the stone-skins waited in ambush. But the enemy were already forty paces distant, and lengthening the gap with every heartbeat.