by Marc Turner
The Fury’s crew cheered.
A fourth Augeran ship closed on the pair of golden dragons, and the archers onboard let loose a storm of arrows that pinged off the beasts’ armor like hail off a copper roof. Galantas shook his head. Brave, but stupid. How often the two go together. A scorpion mounted on the vessel’s forecastle shot a bolt that disappeared into the larger dragon’s mouth, but the creature merely growled before spurting a jet of water from its nostrils that hammered into the soldiers manning the weapon. Farther east, another dragon—steel-colored this time—had surfaced. The stone-skin ship closest to it turned tail and fled south. Heartbeats later, a horn blast sounded across the water, and another enemy vessel took flight, then another, and another.
Galantas’s crew cheered in earnest now. He cast his eye over them. Fourteen survivors if you included Galantas and the two Storm Islanders. Fourteen out of the forty who had met the stone-skin attack: seven Spears, two Needles, two Squalls, as well as that Raptor krel, Toben Stark. Squint grabbed a Squall and led him on a jig about the deck that ended in raucous laughter when the two men slipped on a pool of blood. A flask of spirits was produced and passed round. Some of the Spears whooped and chanted Galantas’s name. Hells, even the Raptor was shouting.
Galantas had endured enough boos in his time that a cheer would never lose its appeal. On this occasion, though, the adulation rang hollow. As hollow as this victory. For while his men might be content merely to have survived the day, Galantas had set his sights higher. And once the initial flush of success had faded, how would his crew view today’s events? Most important, how would the Needles, the Squalls, and the Raptor view them? For it was their account—as opposed to that of Galantas’s Spears—that would carry most weight. Galantas knew what Kalag would say: that the victory here was Cayda’s, not Galantas’s. That it was Cayda who had destroyed the three stone-skin ships that the Fury had tangled with. That it was Cayda who had driven off the dragon when it attacked. And who could argue with him? By contrast, what had Galantas done today, save ferry the woman about like some captain for hire? Even the audacity of his decision to fight the stone-skins would be overshadowed by what came after.
His words to Qinta at Clinker’s Bay came back to him: We need some way to turn this into a victory, not just over the Augerans but over the Storm Islanders as well.
His gaze moved to Cayda and her companion, now standing at the rail to his right. He recalled the invisible barrier she had conjured up to save him from that stone-skin’s sword stroke. And a light went off in his head. Air-magic, he’d thought at the time, but there was another possibility …
Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place.
He looked across at Qinta. If he was going to act, he would have to do so quickly.
“Qinta,” he said, then indicated Cayda and Noon with a flick of his eyes. “Our friends over there … Perhaps you could invite them to join me.”
The Second nodded in understanding.
* * *
Senar squinted. The gloom about the corridor had fallen away, and all was searing light. The blood and grime were gone, along with the body of the axman behind the tattooed Augeran. Senar looked at the stone-skin’s heel, fearing the ax-head embedded there might vanish too.
It did not.
He listened to the moans of the wounded in the courtyard, the distant clamor from the seawall. Evidently the battle for the harbor was still going on, but the fact that the tumult sounded no closer indicated the defenders were holding their own. In the yard, the grass had been trampled into a red-brown soup of mud and blood. Bodies lay all about. There was no sign of the emperor or Kolloken, but Senar saw Lindin Tar’s corpse draped over the ruin of a bench, a hole in her chest the size of a sandfruit. At the center of the square, four red-cloaked Augerans stood in a huddle, surrounded by a ring of Gray Cloaks and Erin Elalese soldiers. One of those soldiers called for the stone-skins to surrender their weapons, but they did not obey. They looked at the warrior Senar had crippled, seeking instructions.
The tattooed man did not acknowledge them.
From along the corridor, two figures appeared. There was no mistaking the executioner’s form, and in front of him strode …
Mazana.
Senar’s expression soured. The emira’s face, arms, and legs looked scalded, and her eyes held a tinge of bitter red like cooling embers. Darbonna’s knife was pushed through her belt.
When the executioner saw the tattooed stone-skin, he reached for his sword.
“Stay back!” Senar said. “You too, Mazana.”
The emira halted. She looked from Senar to the Augeran. “If the two of you are busy, I can come back another time.” She sounded giddy. Power-drunk.
When the stone-skin spoke, his voice was so low it seemed to come all the way up from his feet. “No for need. I is just leaving.”
“I am just leaving,” Mazana corrected him.
The man probably didn’t hear her, because he was already stepping back through the west-facing wall of the corridor. Ahead and to Senar’s left was a door in the same wall. The executioner threw it open and looked into the room beyond. Plainly the Augeran had moved on, though, for the giant slammed the door shut again moments later.
“What’s happening at the harbor?” Senar asked Mazana. “Do I need to get down there?”
“I think not. Remarkably, it seems the dragons have been able to scatter the stone-skin fleet without your help.”
Dragons? “And the wall itself? Does the Chain Tower still hold?”
“As far as I could make out from a glance through a window.”
“Where’s Kiapa? Jodren?”
Mazana made a careless gesture. “When I left him, Kiapa was looking a bit gnawed, but he’ll recover. The same for Jodren—except for the recovering bit, of course.”
“And Uriel?”
For a heartbeat the emira stared at him as if she didn’t recognize the name.
Then the color drained from her face, and she set off at a run along the corridor.
* * *
Hex stood before Romany as pale and insubstantial as a specter. From his expression his mind was still trying to catch up to the sequence of events that had brought him here. He shook his arm free of her grasp.
A mistake.
He must have realized it too, for he snatched out for her again.
The priestess slapped his questing aside. If he reestablished the link between them, she wouldn’t be able to return through the portal without taking him with her. And she had no more wish to let him hitch a ride back than she did to be stranded here with him. He came for her again, his face screwed up in rage as he tore at the weave of her sorcerous defenses. Romany backpedaled. She didn’t need to fight him, just keep him at arm’s length long enough to escape.
Another flick of her mind reopened the portal. As she retreated through it, the heat of the dying sun faded. Hex came after her, ripping through her wards as easily as if they were cobwebs. Just a few more paces. The whistle of the breeze and the touch of the wind-swept dust fell away to be replaced by the still air of the Alcazar. Hex tried to follow, his spiritual fingers clawing at her. But she had moved beyond his reach now, and he might as well have been trying to catch a cloud in his hands. She waved a farewell. His roar of fury filled her ears.
Then silence as she closed the portal again.
Home sweet home.
Romany leaned back against the wall. Hard to believe it was over. There was no way that Hex could open the portal without her help, yet still she found herself counting off the heartbeats, waiting for the inevitable tap tap of his steps, or the whisper of a “hee hee!” in her ear. Foolishness, she berated herself. I’ve won; just accept it.
With Hex gone, his dreamworld had vanished from the Alcazar—the portcullis, the hornets, the darkness. Romany decided she much preferred this Alcazar to the other one. A pity she couldn’t have spent more time gloating over the Augeran, but with an enemy as dangerous as Hex, you didn’t ta
ke chances. And to think the fate she’d inflicted on him was the one she’d originally intended for Mazana! There was an irony there if she was minded to look for it. For now, though, all she wanted to do was put the memory of this episode behind her.
There was dust in her hair and on her clothes. She brushed herself down. A bath was in order, she suspected. A solitary clash of distant swords told her there was still fighting going on in the Alcazar, but she had already done her part and more.
It was time to find somewhere quiet to watch the rest of the drama unfold.
* * *
Mazana was a dozen paces in front of Senar, head down, sandals slapping on the floor tiles. Her dress had a tear on the shoulder he hadn’t noticed before, and the cloth flapped as she ran. The Guardian dashed after her. He was still holding Strike’s sword, and the blade whined as he pumped his arms. He passed the spot where he’d cut down the woman with the mace. There was a puddle of blood so large he had to jump to clear it. His heel caught the edge, and he slipped and skipped a step before finding his feet again.
Behind him came the thump of the executioner’s footsteps. The giant bounded past Senar, closed the distance to Mazana in a handful of paces, and fell into step behind. She reached a staircase to the upper floor and took the steps three at a time, shedding a sandal halfway up where the steps switched back on themselves.
Senar reached the top a moment after her. The corridor was deserted. Mazana’s footsteps echoed along it as she sprinted toward her quarters. Doors flew past to either side of Senar. There were no bodies blocking the way, no blood to suggest the fighting had spread here. And that had to be a good sign, right?
Then he saw the door to Mazana’s room lay open.
There was an acid taste at the back of his mouth.
The emira plunged through the doorway, the executioner pausing on the threshold. Senar pushed past the man to get inside.
He halted.
A dead woman in a gray cloak sat slumped against a wall, her hands cupped over a wound to her stomach. A bodyguard? To one side stood Mazana. Senar could hear her breathing. She looked through the door to her brother’s room, and the Guardian followed her gaze.
Matron, no.
Uriel lay curled in a pool of blood, his red hair soaked a darker shade of crimson. Behind, the wall was spattered with drops that were trickling down like rain on a window. Still trickling. Meaning the boy had died only a short time ago, maybe even just heartbeats before the nightmare world faded—and with it, most likely, the apparition that had slain him, for surely no Augeran would have wasted time on the boy while the battle raged in the courtyard.
Senar struggled to breathe. It felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He shifted his gaze to Mazana. She was facing away from him, her hands hanging slack at her sides. For a while she stood motionless.
Then she sank to her knees.
* * *
Amerel heard a footfall behind, then felt a blow cannon off the Will-shield she had thrown up earlier. She sighed. So predictable. But then to anticipate Galantas’s next move, all she had to do was consider what she’d have done in his place. She turned. Tattoo stood a step away, a cudgel in one hand, his gaze flickering from Amerel to Galantas. Galantas himself watched from beside the binnacle, Barnick alongside.
She wagged a finger. “Treachery, Galantas? I’m shocked.”
Galantas looked unabashed. “I rather suspect you beat me to it. I saw the way you fought the stone-skins—the way your opponents’ weapons bounced off you, just as Qinta’s did now.”
“Bounced off you too, as I recall.” She was starting to regret helping him, but at least this time her mistake had been saving someone’s life.
Galantas studied her. “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you?”
“Let me guess—you’re a fan.”
“When you came to my cabin yesterday, I was sure I’d seen you before. I managed to persuade myself I was mistaken, but then it came to me. That Erin Elalese trade delegation nine years ago. Your hair and eyes were different then, but it was definitely you.”
“If you say so.”
“And if you lied to me about where you’re from, I have to wonder what other parts of your story aren’t true. Such as what you were doing in Bezzle the day the stone-skin commander died.”
“You think I was responsible for that? Even though I wasn’t there?” Amerel waved a hand. “But you’re right, what should that matter? Why let a small thing such as facts get in the way of a good theory?”
Galantas held her gaze, then shrugged. “Tell me now or tell me later, it’s all the same to me. But you will tell me. Just as you will tell me the real story behind how you got the dragon blood, and what part Mazana Creed played in all this.”
Amerel did not respond. No point in trying to argue her innocence any further. There were too many details working against her.
Blood ran into Galantas’s eyes from a cut below his hairline. When he wiped it away, he left a red smear across his forehead. “You can’t win here,” he said. He glanced at Noon. “Even if your friend is a Guardian, too—and I’m guessing he’s not—there are only two of you against twelve.”
“You’re forgetting this,” the Breaker said, raising the remaining sorcerous globe between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe you saw me throw one of these at the dragon before the explosion.”
Galantas stared at him.
Amerel said, “Come on, Galantas, work it out. We used water-magic at the Rent, air-magic against the stone-skin ship, earth-magic against the dragon. Guardians aren’t elemental mages. And even if my friend here were”—the word “friend” tasted unpleasant on her tongue—“three different elements from the same mage? That’s impossible unless you’re a Fangalar.” She gestured with her head to the globe. “Except it isn’t, with these.”
“If you throw that thing at me, you’ll die as well,” Galantas said.
“Whereas if we surrender to you, we’re sure to live forever.”
His expression did not waver. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? If I’m dead anyway, might as well take you with me. And if I choose to fight, I might not even need the globe. There are just three of you on this deck. How long do you think you’ll survive once the swords are drawn? How many of your crew will come running when you call? It’s been a whole quarter-bell since they survived a scrap with the stone-skins. I’m sure they’re just counting the breaths till they can spit in Shroud’s eye again.”
Galantas made to speak, but Amerel talked over him. “There’s another way to resolve this,” she said. “You lend us a boat to get to shore, we wave our good-byes and part as friends. You even give us your water-mage to man the boat—just in case a sudden squall blows in before we get to land. Then afterward you forget this conversation ever happened, and you sail back to the Isles in glory.” The time had come for her to employ her Will. “You’ll be the man who destroyed the stone-skin fleet. The man who survived Liar’s Crossing. A hero, some will say. Who better to lead the Isles when the stone-skins next come calling? Who better to take the throne that has been so tragically vacated by his father? Seems a shame to risk all that on whether I’m bluffing. But if you’re sure I won’t use the globe…”
Galantas’s face was blank, but she knew she was winning him over. He wanted to live more than he wanted vengeance against her. Vengeance only mattered if you’d lost something you cared about. And what had Galantas lost except his father and a few hundred of his kinsmen? The real problem, Amerel knew, was the Fury’s crew. More particularly, what they might have seen of the confrontation taking place here. Galantas looked down at them on the main deck. A handful still stared east toward Gilgamar, but the majority had moved on to relieving their kinsmen’s corpses of valuables.
“I don’t think you need worry about them,” Amerel said. “They were too busy celebrating to see your man here”—she nodded to Tattoo—“trying to take me down. And they’re too far away now to hear what we’re saying. Which means you wo
n’t lose face if you let me go. As for my part in today’s events … Let’s just say it would serve both our purposes if I were to be written out of the tale.”
Galantas continued to look at his crew. Two men were dragging out a spare sail to cover the dead. If anyone felt their captain’s gaze on them, they didn’t turn to meet it. Maybe they really hadn’t seen Tattoo attack Amerel. Or maybe they knew they were only useful to Galantas if they returned home with a happy story. A story that didn’t mention him being outwitted by the woman he’d tried to incapacitate moments earlier.
Amerel rubbed a hand over her eyes. After another night without sleep, the only thing that had sustained her through the fight with the stone-skins was adrenaline. Now her limbs felt like mud. A cut to her left arm stung as if someone had rubbed salt in it. She leaned back against the rail, tried to look like she didn’t much care what Galantas chose to do, provided he did it quickly. He fiddled with his shark-tooth necklace. Amerel treated him to a last touch of her Will.
“Take your time,” she said, keeping her voice light. “If you can’t decide what to do, I’m sure another dragon will be along soon to offer an opinion.”
* * *
Galantas watched Barnick steer the boat up onto the pebble beach. The wave of water-magic deposited the craft just short of the ridge of shells and seaweed that marked the height of the winter tide. Then it melted away. The two Erin Elalese clambered over the gunwales before staggering up the beach as if the ground pitched no less than the boat had done.
“You had no choice,” Qinta said from beside Galantas.
Was that true? Galantas replayed in his mind his conversation with Cayda. Was there anything he could have done differently? He’d hoped to catch her by surprise with that attack, but the woman had expected his betrayal. Should he have called her bluff over the globe? With his crew’s blood still up, he reckoned they’d have been happy to attack her and add another coat of red to the Fury’s deck. But they wouldn’t have reached her before Noon threw that glass globe. The Erin Elalese could have jumped overboard as the thing shattered. Maybe they would have survived the resulting explosion, and maybe they wouldn’t. But Galantas himself would have died, that much was clear.