by Marc Turner
“Move it!” the woman behind Ebon said, and he set off along the wall in a half crouch. As he passed the Gray Cloaks at the arrow slits, he listened to the whip of enemy missiles flying overhead. In front, more mercenaries waited beside the Buck Tower’s portcullis. Four had their shields pressed against the bars to stop the stone-skins inside shooting their crossbows out. Another held still a rope hanging down from the battlements. As Ebon reached him, the man thrust the rope into his hands. Up Ebon had to go, the breeze tugging at his clothes, his chest muscles tensed against the arrow he felt sure was coming. To his right, a missile clacked off stone. As he reached a barred window, he caught the stench of burned flesh from inside.
Vale waited at the parapet to haul him over. For a while Ebon lay on his back, staring up at the sky. Then a man to his left shouted, “Shoot!” and Ebon looked across to see a Gilgamarian soldier yank on a cord to release a catapult’s arm. The arm snapped forward and released its stone before thudding into a padded beam with a force that set the air thrumming. The rear end of the catapult kicked like a mule and came down rattling. The weapon was manned by half a dozen soldiers. More Gilgamarians stood at the arrow slits on the opposite side of the tower, along with the Revenants who had made the climb before Ebon. To the prince’s right, a spiral staircase descended into the tower. Two mercenaries were stationed there to look out for stone-skins attacking from below.
“This way,” Vale said.
Ebon rose and followed him across the tower.
He looked down at the stretch of wall next to the Chain Tower. He’d expected to see the stone-skins attempting to scale the tower’s battlements. Instead all he saw was a group of red-cloaked warriors huddled behind their shields. A single rope attached to a grapnel hung down from the Chain Tower’s parapet, but even now it was being lifted by a Gilgamarian soldier and cast into the harbor. Arrows flashed down from the turret’s arrow slits to clank against stone-skin shields. Beside the enemy warriors, four ropes hooked to the ramparts extended down to a three-masted ship a stone’s throw away. But there were still no stone-skins shimmying up the rope to reinforce their kinsmen. What would be the point? Another twenty, fifty, even a hundred warriors wouldn’t have been enough to take the Chain Tower.
Ebon frowned. The sight of the enemy clustered helpless on the wall should have inspired relief, yet something about this business smelled wrong. He did a head count. Thirty red-cloaked warriors were on the battlements, with another dozen bobbing lifeless in the harbor. But a hundred had taken part in the attack on the Key Tower, which meant around sixty of the enemy must be sheltering in the tower below him. What were they doing down there, admiring the architecture? Ebon caught the eye of the Gilgamarian soldier at the nearest arrow slit.
“How long have they been like that?” he said, nodding at the stone-skins on the wall.
“Since not long after the attack began,” the man replied. “Fools have been giving us target practice. A few strapped their shields to their backs and tried to scale the Chain Tower, but they still made for easy pickings. Highest anyone got was halfway up before they were feathered. It didn’t take the others long to realize they were wasting their time.”
“Have the ones below us tried to attack up the stairs?”
“No. Feinted to do so a couple of times, but never went through with it.”
Ebon looked at Vale. Never went through with it? But there were only a dozen Gilgamarians up here. And surely capturing this tower was a necessary first step to attacking the next, for by doing so, the stone-skins would not only dispose of the archers stationed here, but also gain a position from which to shoot at the Gilgamarians on the Chain Tower. So why hadn’t they tried? True, they couldn’t have known exactly how many soldiers were posted up here, but to not even test the defenders’ strength …
Perhaps the stone-skins had gambled on reaching the Chain Tower before its portcullis was lowered. Or perhaps their intelligence on the wall’s defenses was—
A cheer from one of the Gilgamarian archers interrupted his thoughts. He glanced over the battlements again. Four stone-skins sat on the parapet next to the fixed lines, facing out to sea. Their spears rested on top of the ropes. The nearest to Ebon, a woman, placed her hands on the spear shaft—one to either side of the cord—then leaned forward so the weapon took her weight. Legs kicking, she went sliding down the inclined rope toward the deck of the stone-skin ship below.
They’re pulling out.
Four by four, the red-cloaked warriors zipped along the ropes. Their kinsmen who’d been sheltering in the tower now emerged onto the wall, the warriors with shields protecting the ones without.
All of the Gilgamarians cheered now, but Ebon didn’t feel like celebrating. Neither did the Revenants, judging by the fevered conversation going on between Twist and a handful of his colleagues.
“It’s a feint,” Ebon said to Vale. “This whole attack. They never really tried to take the Chain Tower because that was never their target. They just wanted us to think it was.”
Vale’s expression was characteristically grim. “So what is their target?”
Ebon wished he knew. None of this made sense. The only way the stone-skin fleet could get into the harbor was past the chains. And since the mechanism to lower them was on this side of the Neck …
A grinding sound came from the direction of the Chain Tower, followed by a splash and a swish of water.
Ebon’s blood ran cold.
One of the chains was down.
The Gilgamarians weren’t cheering anymore. Had the stone-skins managed to smuggle a force into the Chain Tower by a different route? Or were there traitors among the defenders?
No, that couldn’t be right, for if the chains had been lowered, they would have been lowered all together. Whereas Ebon had heard but a single splash.
Twist headed toward the stairs, and the prince set off after him. The Chain Tower, that was where he needed to be.
The Chain Tower would hold the answers.
* * *
Amerel squinted against the glare of the light reflecting off Gilgamar’s seawall. The stone-skin fleet had deployed in two lines parallel to it, nine ships in each. Even on their waves of water-magic, the vessels weren’t able to maneuver their sides flush to the wall, because it was shielded by boulders streaked red with fireweed.
From a distance that fireweed made it look like the stones were daubed with blood, yet there was little enough fighting taking place on the wall. The stone-skins had gained control of the battlements to the east of the chains. It was the fate of the Chain Tower on the west side that would decide Gilgamar’s destiny, though, for it was here that the mechanism to lower the chains was housed. A scattering of Augerans had gathered on the wall below it. Amerel watched four red-cloaked figures cast grapnels up to the battlements. Three missed with their throws, while the fourth managed to climb a mere handspan up his rope before it was cut from above.
The Guardian blew out her cheeks. There was something strangely halfhearted about their efforts. Like they knew they couldn’t take the tower and were simply going through the motions. Perhaps their numbers were too few, but then why weren’t more Augerans crossing to the wall? The closest stone-skin ship had secured lines to the parapet, yet no warriors moved along them to reinforce their kinsmen on the battlements.
Noon leaned on the rail next to Amerel. “Are we just going to sit here and watch?”
“A chair would be lovely, thank you.”
Attacking the stone-skin fleet would be suicide, and pointless to boot, since the real fight—if you could call it that—was taking place on the wall. Besides, Amerel had done her part. The rest was down to the dragons if they ever showed up. And if they did show up, the last place she wanted to be was close to the stone-skins’ ships.
Tattoo climbed to the maintop and peered through his telescope at the city. He called down to Galantas, “It’s her, Captain, I swear it. See the glint to the right of the harbor entrance?”
Gal
antas nodded.
Amerel caught the gaze of the quartermaster at the wheel. “What’s going on?”
“Spotted the Eternal, is my guess,” the man said.
“The Eternal?”
“Captain’s ship—his old one.”
Of course: the metal monster Amerel had seen in Bezzle. When she looked toward Gilgamar, all she could make out above the wall were the masts of the ships at quayside. “That telescope can look through walls, can it?”
“Main trunk is capped with steel,” the quartermaster said. “Can spot it a league off. Captain likes to cover it up when we go about our business. But it weren’t covered when the stone-skins took her.”
So the Augerans had taken the Eternal to transport their raiding party here? Not the ship she would have chosen for a surprise attack.
Amerel wiped a hand across her sweat-sheened forehead. On the journey north, the wind of the Fury’s passage had cooled her, but there was no breeze now to take the edge off the heat. She looked east. Where in the Matron’s name were the dragons? The clash at the Rent had scarcely delayed the Augerans, but still Mokinda should have long since reached the Dragon Gate. Had he had second thoughts about releasing the creatures? Or met resistance from the governors of Dian and Natilly?
Then again, would Amerel even be able to see the dragons before they attacked? What if they stayed below the water until they closed on their targets? What if the first she knew of their coming was when one rose beneath a stone-skin ship?
Or beneath the Fury, perhaps.
A nervous glance at the waters off the starboard bow.
Nothing.
A rock thrown by an Augeran catapult ricocheted off the Chain Tower and into the waterway beyond. The concussion sounded across the sea, momentarily drowning out the hiss of the waves carrying the stone-skin ships. On the battlements to the west, the Augerans had started sliding down the lines to the waiting ship.…
Amerel frowned. Wait, sliding down? Were they withdrawing? Had they already given up on taking the tower?
A scraping, clanking noise reached her, and she watched wide-eyed as the topmost chain slithered free and splashed into the sea. What the hell? The chain hadn’t been lowered, it had been … cut. And it couldn’t have been lowered anyway, since it had fallen on the eastern side of the Neck, not the western side where the Chain Tower was located.
But cut? How?
Noon whistled between his teeth. “That changes things.”
“Not for us, it doesn’t.”
“If the chains fall, so does Gilgamar.”
“We didn’t come here to save Gilgamar. We came to watch the dragons destroy the stone-skin fleet.”
“And how are they going to do that if the fleet’s tucked up in the harbor?”
“Why, by following them in, of course. The Augerans will have cut the chains. Can’t just reattach them afterward.”
“What if the stone-skins are ashore by the time the dragons get here?”
Amerel shrugged. “So the dragons destroy empty ships, I can live with that. It still leaves the Augerans stranded in Gilgamar, with a Sabian League up in arms around them.”
The Breaker looked unconvinced.
It was all academic anyway. Even if Amerel had wanted to help—and could persuade Galantas to do so—how was the Fury going to stop the chains being cut? Three more sorcerous globes might account for three more stone-skin ships, but what then? She looked over her shoulder to the south. The encounter at the Rent had enabled the other two Rubyholt vessels to recover ground on the Fury, but the subsequent dash to Gilgamar had strung them out again. The closest was half a league away, the next a mere blur on the horizon. By the time they got here, this would be over. Their water-mages were probably powering down now to make sure of it. And even if they did arrive in time, how could a mere three Rubyholt ships change the course of the battle?
A lookout shouted, “Two sails bearing down, captain! One to port, one to starboard!”
Amerel started. Stone-skin ships?
She swung her gaze round and saw two vessels approaching the Fury on waves of water-magic, a two-master from the east, a three-master from the west. The demon figurehead, crooning softly before now, found its voice again.
“Get us out of here,” Galantas said to Barnick.
The mage did not reply. His expression was dark.
“Mage!”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Barnick said. “Whenever I try to raise a wave, one of the stone-skins cancels me out. Another water-mage. On that ship there.” He pointed to the three-master approaching from the west.
Galantas’s voice was flat. “A water-mage strong enough to nullify your magic and still conjure up a wave beneath his own ship?”
Barnick scowled.
Galantas looked at Amerel. “What about you?”
Me? Ah, of course, after her exploits at the Rent, he thought she was a water-mage. “My hands are tied.”
“What do you mean your hands are tied?” he snapped. “You destroyed two ships at the Rent, but now you’ve got nothing?”
Yes, that would take some explaining later. “I can deal with one of the ships when it arrives, but the other will likely close with us in the meantime.”
Galantas stared at her, then waved his hand in disgust. With the enemy just moments away, it wasn’t as if he could argue. “Then target the ship to port,” he said, turning away. “Once Barnick’s water-mage is dead, maybe we can withdraw before the other ship gets here.”
Withdraw. Like this was a tactical maneuver rather than a race for their lives.
Amerel spun about and headed for the bow.
Behind her, Tattoo started screaming orders: “Prepare to repel boarders! Archers to the tops! Axes ready to cut the lines!”
The devilship shrieked its joy.
Amerel weaved a path across the main deck through the sailors scampering to take up positions. She could see the stone-skin ships more clearly now, both smaller than the Fury, both crawling with enemy warriors. They were coming in fast, no doubt anxious to close with the devilship before they suffered the same fate as the ships at the Rent. The one to the east—Amerel’s target—had a hole in the main topsail where a catapult stone had ripped through it.
Noon caught up to her at the port cathead. His voice was strained from the effort of resisting the devilship’s song. “There’s another option,” he said. “You take one globe; I’ll take another. When the second ship gets close I’ll throw—”
Amerel raised a hand to cut him off. “And how close would that ship have to get before you could be sure to hit it?” Too close for comfort, probably. “No, we stick to the plan: take the first ship out, hope the other turns and runs. Or that Barnick can keep us far enough away from it for me to take it out after.”
“You’re the boss,” Noon said. He reached into his belt-pouch. “Earth, air, or fire?”
“Surprise me.”
* * *
The concussion of Cayda’s sorcery was so loud it should have left cracks in the sky. The Augeran galleon’s oarports blew open, its sides exploded outward, and the quarterdeck, along with the stone-skins on it, was lifted into the air. Overhead, the mizzen yard cracked, and one of the sails was torn free to go billowing into the sky. A red-cloaked Augeran must have been standing above the very point of detonation, for he was launched toward the Fury as if he’d been shot from a catapult. He sailed through the air, limbs flopping, before hitting the sea midway between the two ships.
As his body disappeared beneath the waves, Galantas was staggered by a gust of wind from the blast. It tangled in the Fury’s sails, and the vessel slewed round. Splinters rained down on deck. Galantas closed his eyes. All about him the air screeched and whistled, but all he could think about was how Cayda had managed to unleash such destruction. Air-magic. He’d worked that out all by himself. But wasn’t the woman meant to be a water-mage? True, the most powerful sorcerers could manipulate not only their own element but also the element over whic
h it was dominant. Their control over that second element, though, was supposed to be shaky at best. Yet Cayda had demonstrated an equal command over water and air—a command few mages could match over even their primary element.
When Galantas opened his eyes again, the broken remains of the stone-skin galleon were sinking. Within heartbeats, only the bowsprit showed above the surface. Then that too vanished from sight. The wind dropped to a sigh. Corpses bobbed on the drunken waves. A mist of blood hung over them.
Movement from the corner of Galantas’s eye, and he looked across.
The other stone-skin ship was still heading toward them. After Cayda’s show of force, Galantas had wondered if the Augerans would remember important business elsewhere. Instead they came on more swiftly.
Barnick began to raise a wave beneath the Fury.
Galantas put a hand on his arm. “No,” he said.
“What?”
Instead of responding, Galantas looked at Amerel. The stone-skin ship was now just fifty lengths away. Was it too close for Cayda to repeat her fireworks without also taking down the Fury? And if so, did she have the strength to unleash another blast? Perhaps Cayda was contemplating the same, for she stared at the enemy vessel with an uncertain expression.
Then she met his gaze.
And shook her head.
Galantas’s mind worked furiously. A moment ago, he had despaired at his plight, but now he saw an opportunity in it. He’d had enough of running. It was time to make a stand, and that meant accepting the challenge the stone-skins’ advance represented. A part of him knew this was madness. Forty Rubyholters against hundreds of stone-skins? More importantly, forty pirates against hundreds of battle-hardened warriors? It didn’t matter that the enemy couldn’t bring all of those hundreds to bear at once, because force of numbers was sure to tell eventually. This wasn’t a fight the Islanders could win.