by Marc Turner
To the east, the stone-skins from the next tower must have been advancing this way along the wall, because a handful of Revenant archers had taken up station on that side of the battlements and were sending down a steady fire of arrows. From the south came a trumpeting sound, and over the parapet Ebon saw a silver-scaled dragon erupt from the waves beside a stone-skin ship. Dragons might have been a common sight in these parts for all the attention the mercenaries and the Erin Elalese gave them. Ebon, too, had no time to gawp. Preparations were under way for the attack down the stairs. Revenants collected ammunition from corpses, or half rolled, half pushed catapult stones to where Twist stood beside the stairwell. The mercenary leader was in whispered conversation with the woman wearing the eyepatch. When it ended, she moved away to join her kinsmen.
Twist raised his hands. “Okay, lads, gather round,” he said to his men. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down. These stones”—he pointed to the catapult stones—“should do nicely to clear away any enemies on the stairs. The lefties among you are gonna be first to follow them down, ’cause the way the staircase turns, you’ll be better able to get a swing in if you meet trouble. While we’re attacking down the stairs, the Breakers there”—he nodded to the Erin Elalese assembled at the eastern battlements—“are going over the side with the ropes they’ve brought. Stone-skins below have left the portcullis up to allow for reinforcements along the wall, and we mean to use that to our advantage. While we pin down the enemy at the bottom of the stairs, Breakers will hit them through the arch. Dunno how many swords the stone-skins have got, but judging by the numbers they left guarding these battlements, I’m guessing it’s less than we have. Questions?” He didn’t give anyone a chance to speak. “Then let’s do this. Endorian plus one, you’re with me in the second wave.”
Ebon stared at the man. “Plus one”—was that him? The mercenary did him too much honor, surely.
A catapult stone was rolled to the top step. A push sent it thumping down the stairwell with a noise like a titan’s footsteps.
The left-handed fighters among the Revenants came grumbling forward as if they’d been called to the lash. Their colleagues slapped them on the back and spurred them on with sympathetic offerings. “Save some for us, eh,” one man said. “Anything you want me to pass on to your wife and my kids?” The lefties numbered only four, meaning the second wave of attackers—Ebon’s wave—might as well have been the first. He could have objected, of course—Twist had no authority over him or Vale. But the truth was, Vale belonged at the front, and Ebon meant to be at his shoulder.
A second catapult stone was sent rumbling down the stairs.
Alongside Ebon, Vale was his usual steadfast presence. The Revenants pressed in close, getting ready to go. A woman with the longest hair he’d ever seen sucked in deep breaths. Twist was chuckling to the man beside him as he reenacted how he’d dispatched a stone-skin in the fight for the battlements. His voice had an edge of excitement to it. Maybe it was an act to put his companions at ease, but if so it wasn’t helping Ebon. Normally he didn’t feel fear before a fight, yet an iciness was creeping through him as if the goddess Galea had returned to his mind. This once he might have welcomed her back. There were times when he thought that he could sense her in a distant corner of his mind—and that, with the right tug, he could have drawn her to him. But not today.
A third stone followed the second. There had been no shouts from the stairs to suggest the other rocks had met stone-skins on their way down, so Twist raised a hand to halt the man pushing a fourth, before gesturing to the lefties. Ebon swallowed and drew his sword. He needed more time to prepare himself for what waited below, but how was thinking about it going to make it easier? Better just to get on with it. Someone passed him a shield. It felt so heavy on his arm he doubted he’d be able to lift it when the time came.
“Go!” Twist said, and the lefties stormed down the stairwell. Twist tapped each one on the shoulder as if he were counting them off. Then he gestured to the Erin Elalese.
Two Breakers sat in the crenels on the eastern rampart. They dropped ropes over the parapet and disappeared so fast down them, they might have lost their grip on the lines. Shouts came from along the harbor wall—stone-skins calling a warning to their kinsmen in the tower. Too late, Ebon hoped. The next two Erin Elalese climbed to the battlements, but the prince didn’t see them descend because one of the Revenants had nudged him forward. He turned back to the stairwell to see Twist vanish after the lefties. Two more mercenaries came next before Vale reached the top step.
Ebon took a breath and followed him down.
* * *
The sorcerous explosion sent Galantas staggering back against the port rail, and he grabbed the lower shrouds. One moment the air above the dragon was clear, the next it was filled with roots and dirt. Rocks as big as carts came crashing down around the beast, throwing up spray. Soil and pebbles pattered onto the Fury’s decks, and a cloud of dust enveloped Galantas.
Earth-magic? Now Cayda was just showing off.
A fog settled on the sea behind the Fury, along with a blanket of leaves. Beneath the surface, the dragon was naught but a shadow. Dead? Unlikely with those impenetrable scales on its back. Doubtless it had merely been stunned by the deluge, which meant Galantas needed to put some distance between himself and the creature before it recovered. The Fury’s flight had taken it on a westerly course away from Gilgamar, and Galantas shouted to Barnick to angle the ship closer to the northern shore. The waters would be shallower there, making it harder for the dragon to follow. Hopefully.
Qinta was at his shoulder. “What about the Needles?” he said.
Galantas had forgotten about Tub. The Willow Reed had been cut free of the Augeran vessel. The stone-skins were busy dousing the sails with water in order to better harness the meager wind from the west. The Willow Reed, by contrast, wallowed on the swell, its decks deserted. Either the crew had been butchered to a man, or any remaining souls were lying low. There was nothing to be gained by rushing to search for survivors, Galantas decided, especially with that dragon skulking in the water between the two ships. He had the lives of his own crew to consider, after all.
He climbed to the quarterdeck and swung his gaze east. Aside from the beast that had attacked the Fury, only four dragons were visible—no, make that five, for a monstrous copper head had just come roaring from the deep beside an Augeran galleon. Galantas whistled as the dragon rammed the ship beam-on, caving in the hull and driving the vessel back. Closer, a smaller red-scaled beast surfaced beside a two-decker. It lifted its tail from the sea and shattered the main yard with a clubbing blow. Screams sounded.
The ship’s water-mage must have entered the fray at that moment, for the sea about the dragon churned and swirled. The beast was flipped over to expose its belly. A hail of arrows flashed out from the vessel, but the dragon had already sunk beneath the waves.
Galantas smiled. On Dragon Day the Storm Lords might give as good as they got, but the Augerans hadn’t come equipped with the sorcerously invested weapons they would need to take down dragons. Their best chance at salvation lay in gaining Gilgamar’s harbor, but what of the chains barring their way? Had the stone-skins in the city managed to cut a second one? It was impossible to tell from Galantas’s vantage point, because the Fury’s passage north and west meant his view of the Neck was obscured by the Chain Tower. But a count of the Augeran ships told him that none had yet entered the harbor. And why would they still be outside unless their way was blocked?
To the west of the Chain Tower, the wall was clear of stone-skins, while across the channel, the battlements of the smaller tower overlooking the Neck were now in Gilgamarian hands. The arrival of the dragons would have buoyed the defenders. They would know they only had to hold out a short while longer before the Augeran fleet was forced to scatter. Would flight save the stone-skins, though? Barnick hadn’t been able to outpace the dragon just now, so odds were the Augeran mages, tired by last night’s exertions, wouldn�
��t be able to either. Especially since, with their ships’ hulls marked by dragon blood, this wasn’t a chase the creatures would give up lightly.
“Captain!” Qinta said.
The Second pointed toward the inner line of stone-skin ships. A four-master had risen up on a wave of water-magic and now surged toward the harbor entrance. Its main course showed a woman’s face framed in fire, and there was a white square over her cheek where a gash in the sail had been clumsily patched. Galantas licked his lips. The ship was going to try to clear the chains. An act of desperation? Probably, but its captain must have thought he stood at least a chance of success to risk the attempt.
The wave beneath the vessel grew. If one ship made it over, the rest would surely follow, and already a second stone-skin craft was moving into position behind the first. Once in the harbor they would be protected from the dragons by the same chains that had blocked their passage moments before. Galantas looked at the Chain Tower, hoping for some response from the defenders. A volley of arrows raked the decks of the first Augeran ship, but that wasn’t going to slow it. What could?
Galantas cursed. The stone-skins were about to wriggle free of the trap.
The four-master drew level with the Chain Tower. It was so high now, the stone-skins in the rigging could have shaken hands with the Gilgamarians on the battlements.
Then the wave beneath it started to subside. An armspan lower, three, five. Galantas lost sight of the ship as it entered the Neck. Heartbeats later, he heard a tortured squeal of metal, screams, a crack of wood.
Not encouraging sounds if you were a stone-skin. The vessel must have hit the chains.
The defenders on the Chain Tower cheered.
“Well, well,” Barnick said.
“What just happened?” Galantas asked.
“Someone threw their Will against the wave under that ship. Someone strong.” He nodded toward the Chain Tower. “Looks like the Gilgamarians have got themselves a water-mage up there.”
* * *
Senar’s Will-blow had driven the stone-skin to one knee. A string of bloody drool hung from his mouth, and he wiped a sleeve across it. Along with the cut over his eye, that made it two strikes to nil in Senar’s favor, but what mattered was who landed the last blow. There was a newfound respect in the stone-skin’s eyes, and he nodded as if to acknowledge the Guardian’s merit. All very civilized. It was easy to forget they had been trying to kill each other moments before, and would likely be moments from now too.
This pause allowed Senar to consider his options. The Augeran’s ability to phase in and out of existence made him an opponent unlike any that the Guardian had faced. Was there a way he could turn the man’s gift against him? Earlier, Senar’s sword in the stone-skin’s neck had prevented him from rematerializing. Would any … impediment have the same effect? Even dust? A few Will-blows to the ceiling might loosen a cloud of plaster. A handful of soil would also work, though Senar doubted his foe would stand idly by while he entered the courtyard to do some gardening.
His thoughts turned to the dragon scales on his right arm and shoulder. If he waited until his opponent aimed a hit at that part of his body, he could sacrifice a block in exchange for an attack. And yet if the Augeran’s strike was with an insubstantial blade, the scales would not stop it any more than Senar’s sword would.
In the yard, the emperor continued to urge on his troops. Along the corridor behind the stone-skin, meanwhile, a figure emerged from the darkness—a man with ragged hair, clutching an ax with a wooden shaft. His lips had been cut away to reveal the teeth and gums beneath, giving him a permanent feral smile. The tattooed Augeran half turned as the man approached, then frowned and stepped aside to let him pass. The axman ignored him, his gaze fixed on Senar.
Meaning they were on the same side?
If so, the stone-skin must have seen his ally more as hindrance than as help, for as the apparition drew level, the Augeran drove an elbow into his temple. It landed with a wet crack like the sound of an egg breaking. The axman collapsed.
The stone-skin bent down and pried the ax from his fingers before straightening.
With a shout he attacked, swinging ax and sword together. Senar blocked the ax with his Will, the sword with his own blade, but the Augeran’s weapon slid through it. The Guardian swayed backward, the sword’s tip passing a hairbreadth from his chin. The ax came at him again, and this time when he parried, his sword crashed against the weapon. The head of the ax hooked the blade, pinning it for a heartbeat and forcing Senar to block the next sword thrust with his Will. The stone-skin followed up with a kick to the midsection. Senar didn’t have time to gather his power again. Instead he tried to fold with the blow, took a thump to the gut that scrambled his insides and set the air hissing between his teeth.
The Augeran surged forward again, golden tattoos flashing in the gloom. His next stroke passed through Senar’s parrying sword, then his next and his next too, until the Guardian found himself using only his Will to block his enemy’s strikes. At times the swish of the stone-skin’s weapons had him convinced he could tell the physical attacks from the spiritual ones. But just because a stroke started out “real” didn’t mean it would end that way. And of course if he used his sword to try to block it, that just made it more likely his foe would turn his own weapon insubstantial.…
An idea formed in Senar’s mind. A long shot perhaps, but that was better than no shot at all.
His use of his power was starting to take a toll. Each impact of his foe’s weapons on his Will-shield was accompanied by a needle-prick of pain in his skull. He flinched with each blow, making no effort to conceal his discomfort. Let his opponent see he was suffering. Let him think victory was close. The Augeran’s attacks developed into a rhythm like the beat of a galley’s drummer. Given time he would have battered through Senar’s defenses, but the Guardian wasn’t going to allow him the chance.
An overhand stroke from the stone-skin’s sword gave him an opening. He sidestepped the attack. His opponent’s ax was already sweeping round.
Now Senar needed a touch of luck.
He swung hard with his sword—at the ax rather than its wielder, hoping the weapon was real and not insubstantial. Its whisper through the air suggested it was, but until it actually met his sword—
Senar’s blade cut cleanly through the ax’s shaft, and the metal head thunked to the floor to leave the stone-skin holding nothing but an armspan of wood.
Growling, he tossed it away.
Senar kicked the ax-head past his foe, then sprang to the attack. The Augeran raised his sword to block Senar’s cut, but the Guardian used a nudge of the Will to slow the weapon. For an instant, he thought he had his man.
His sword passed harmlessly through the stone-skin’s flesh and out the other side.
The Augeran smiled, stepped back out of range.
Senar held his ground, waiting.
And suddenly his opponent wasn’t smiling anymore. For unbeknownst to him, Senar had used the moment afforded by his foe’s retreat to fix his Will on the fallen ax-head, and slide it across the floor beneath his adversary’s right foot. The stone-skin hadn’t felt it because his foot was insubstantial as it came down. When he rematerialized now, though, it was with a chunk of metal imbedded in his heel.
Senar watched the man’s expression twist from incomprehension to shock.
Then the pain hit him, and his eyes bulged. He clamped his teeth shut, but still a blubbering wheeze escaped his lips. He sank to one knee, his left hand reaching down to touch the ax-head sticking out from the back of his heel like a sandclaw’s talon. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.
Then his features smoothed, the agony passing.
He’s made himself insubstantial, Senar realized.
The Guardian wondered if his victory would be short-lived. Could the Augeran pluck the ax-head from his spiritual flesh? Or had the metal fused to skin and bone in a way that could not be undone? The answer, he decided, lay in the stone-ski
n’s look: a look that was baleful but also heavy with foreboding. A look that said the Augeran knew the game was up. For while the man’s spiritual form seemed to offer relief from the pain, it was only by returning to the flesh that he would be able to kill the Guardian.
And Senar suspected a lump of agony in his foot might restrict his fighting style.
Just then, the walls of the corridor shimmered.
* * *
Romany had been expecting Hex’s portcullis to come down, and she struck out at it with her awareness. She had only had a heartbeat to gather her power, and rather than fashioning an opening big enough for her to run through, she could create just a hole an armspan in diameter. While her conscious mind hesitated, her assassin’s instincts took over. She dived through the opening before rolling on one shoulder and coming to her feet again. Her blood-caked sandals skated on the floor as she pushed off, and she stuttered into a run again.
Fifteen paces from the portal.
Something struck and tangled in the weave of sorcerous threads at her back. Something Hex had thrown at her? She did not look round. To either side the walls swelled and darkened to resemble the leprous skin Romany had seen in Mazana’s room earlier. Large wriggling forms like oversized maggots pushed through lesions in the flesh. They flopped to the floor before rupturing to release buzzing shapes as big as Romany’s fist. Hornets. One flapped about her face, and she lashed out with her knife, missed. Her breath snorted in her nose. Just hold it together a few moments more.
Ten paces.
Ahead the corridor was empty of obstructions, yet Romany doubted it would remain that way for long. She veered toward a door on her left, hoping that Hex might mistake it for her destination. As she reached for the handle, a knot of barbed wire sprung up about it. Good, she thought as she swerved away. The time he’d wasted conjuring up that wire was time he could otherwise have spent creating another portcullis.