The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  Even in the dim light, she saw Blacksword’s expression sour from determined to malignant.

  “Get in. Under the bridge, and keep quiet!”

  Tila had two choices. She could obey him, or keep running into an unfamiliar city, hope the Watch got tied up with him, and that no one found her before she made it back to the Light of Fortune.

  “Under the bridge!” Blacksword hissed over her shoulder, and Tila noted with some annoyance that Barach didn’t hesitate. Her bodyguard took three steps to the edge of the wharf and slipped into the water feet-first with a surprising lack of noise. Marin, following after, clearly realised what his husband was planning and took a running dive in, arms outstretched, parting the water with barely a splash. Blacksword pulled both his weapons from his belt to hold them above the water as he skidded on his backside and dropped in, bracing himself with one hand on the wharf at the last moment to muffle his entry.

  “Fine,” Tila muttered, and followed him. She ducked down behind the arch of the bridge, placed both hands on the stone of the wharf and hopped into the channel, just as she heard the clatter of feet signalling the arrival of the Watch.

  She stifled a squeak as the water soaked her up to the chest. It was warm—far warmer than the sea in the docks at Idramar, even at the height of summer—but that didn’t stop her panicking momentarily. She could already feel the water pulling at her dress, trying to drag her down. She held onto the shore grimly, and shuffled along to join her companions in the deeper darkness beneath the arch. Blacksword reached out and grabbed her shoulder with his free hand, pulling her into his side.

  Shouts in Alaban rang out, questioning where the foreigners had gone, then an authoritative voice ordered the rest onwards. Tila heard the slap-slap-slap of running, sandaled feet going over the bridge above them, then fading into the distance. She opened her mouth to speak, but Blacksword put his finger to his lips in an urgent motion for silence. Tila held her tongue, but it was becoming increasingly hard to keep herself above water with only her arms.

  Something bumped against her leg. She managed to clamp down on her immediate reaction so only the barest hint of a strangled grunt emerged, but she saw Blacksword’s eyebrows quirk questioningly.

  “There’s something in the water,” Tila whispered, as quietly as she could.

  Blacksword’s cheek twitched. “Sharks. Attracted to the blood on our clothes. Everyone out, slow and quiet.”

  It wasn’t easy. Tila managed to pull herself to the edge of the bridge, but the sheer weight of her waterlogged dress made it hard to lever herself out without any purchase for her feet. It wasn’t until Blacksword wrapped his left arm around her legs and gave her a boost, bracing himself against the edge of the wharf with his other arm, that she cleared the water properly. Even then, shedding water like a raised wreck and with a dress clinging to her that felt like it weighed a hundredweight, it was a very good job there weren’t any of the Watch lurking. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to properly lift an arm to ward them off, let alone thrown a knife with accuracy.

  “What now?” she demanded of Blacksword, keeping her voice down. “We’re all wet through, we must look even more suspicious than we did before, and now this lady can’t even run!” She gestured at her sopping dress, still shedding water in rivulets.

  Blacksword blinked noticeably when she said “lady”. Certainly, she didn’t look like a member of the nobility. Nor did she particularly feel like one right at that moment, but that was hardly the point. She didn’t want this sell-sword to think she viewed him as her superior.

  “We need a boat,” Blacksword said. “The Watch are looking for us on the streets. We get a rowboat and take the channels to the harbour, then reach your ship from the water. Assuming you actually have a ship,” he added.

  “The Light of Fortune, out of Idramar,” Tila snapped.

  “Idramar?” Marin piped up.

  “You never did share your names,” Blacksword added, looking from her to Barach.

  “Ship first, introductions later,” Tila told him sternly. “We don’t have time. And where do you intend to get a rowboat from, and how do you intend to steer it? This lady knows enough about boats and the sea to know fools with no experience regret combining the two!”

  “Ah,” Marin said. “This is, perhaps, where s’man can help…”

  SAANA

  BRIDA DIED TWO days later.

  It hadn’t been pretty. The woman had writhed on her pallet of blankets and clutched at her stomach, in so much agony she could barely speak. The draughts Kerrti mixed barely touched the pain, which Brida described as akin to having swallowed a hot coal, in one of the times she’d managed to muster words. Kerrti did her best, as always, but there was no denying the Dark Father when he’d set his eyes on someone. In the end the healer had given the only help she could and mixed the Last Draught with the blessing of Brida and her husband Oll, and Brida had slipped away holding Oll’s hand while he wept.

  The one good thing, Saana had reflected bitterly as she’d watched Chara paint the designs entreating Father Krayk to let his daughter’s spirit return to the oceans, was that Kerrti had been clear Brida’s illness had been from within, not without. It wasn’t that Saana was happy with how their houses had come to be empty, but no one seemed to have sickened from them yet, and Kerrti wasn’t sure sickness could linger for that many years.

  Even so, Saana thought, as the yolgu that had given Brida to the waves came to a squelching halt under her on the black mud of the shore, perhaps it would be best for them to build new homes. Dug down into the ground, as they had been at Koszal. Wooden beams and stone walls, with the gaps filled with mud and moss. She jumped down and turned to assist Oll, his eyes red and raw from crying. The sky was the grey of steel, and light drizzle spotted into her eyes as she helped him down. Yes, new homes, that might be the best thing. But where?

  They’d have to tear buildings down to make room inside the town walls, and that wouldn’t sit well with the Naridans. But where else could they go? The salt marsh was fine for grazing sheep, but too damp for houses. Further inland was farmland, even now being ploughed and planted, so there was no way that could be used, at least not this year.

  What about clearing some of the forest? Saana squinted over at the dark mass in the distance. Blackcreek would have to approve it, and even if he did, she didn’t fancy the idea of digging out so many longhouses through the mess of tree roots they’d undoubtedly find. On the other hand, tree stumps could probably be moved much more easily if they could borrow dragons to heave them out…

  Her thoughts ran on and on in this way, turning over the possibilities as the funeral party trudged around the town wall towards the large hole in it, through which they could easily climb now they were no longer burdened with Brida’s bier. Saana wasn’t sure whether the sight of a group of Tjakorshi clambering through the town’s erstwhile defences would be welcomed by the folk of Black Keep, but she also wasn’t sure that she cared that much. She didn’t see any reason why they should have to take the long way around to the gate when there was a much more convenient alternative.

  “Chief!”

  The shout had come from above. She looked up to see Nalon hurrying down the top of the wall towards her, his dark hair plastered to his head. He’d clearly been out in the weather without a hood for a little while.

  “What?” she demanded, halting to look up at him. She’d learned better than to try walking on the ground around the town without keeping an eye on where she was putting her feet, and the last thing she needed was to be hopping to Kerrti with a twisted ankle.

  “It’s Chara!” the smith shouted down, wiping his wet hair back from his eyes. “She’s gone into the forest on her own!”

  Saana frowned. “So?”

  “So, there’s wild dragons out there!” Nalon shouted, waving one arm wildly towards the north. “I heard it from the shepherds—one of the local sheep wandered and was nothing but fleece and bones by the time it was foun
d, and that was only yesterday!”

  Saana snorted. “Chara’s not a sheep, Nalon.”

  “She’ll be as dead as that fucking sheep if a pack of razorclaws find her!” Nalon yelled. “You were pissed off the other day because I didn’t tell you something? Well, now I’m telling you something! You need to go find Blackcreek and get him to send a party out looking for her, or we’ll need a new corpse-painter!”

  Saana grimaced. Nalon could be a pain in the arse, but he seemed in deadly earnest. “Chara isn’t one of Blackcreek’s, there’s no reason for him to care. We’ll get a party together and—”

  “No,” Nalon cut her off. “Sorry Chief, but you need Naridans for this, ones who know the local dragons. You think the sars’ war dragons are scary? They’re just the ones that can be tamed. Wild razorclaws are like… they’re like the krayks of the land. That’s how bad they are.”

  Saana cursed under her breath. The rest of the funeral party had kept moving, and she picked up her own pace once again. “Why haven’t you gone to Blackcreek about this?” she shouted to him, not looking up from the ground. “Why wait for me?”

  “I tried!” Nalon replied. “Honest, Chief, I tried! But his guards wouldn’t let me in, and just laughed at me when I said one of ours was in danger. But he’ll see you whenever, right?”

  Before, perhaps, Saana thought bitterly. But that worked out so well for both of us last time. “Fine! But start rounding up whoever you can, just in case he doesn’t listen!” She was nearly at the gap in the wall now, and risked a glance up at him. “And that includes you! You’re the only one who’ll know what we’re dealing with!”

  “It’s been twenty years—”

  “No arguments, Nalon!” Saana shouted. She scrambled over the fallen stones, managing to keep her footing despite one shifting underneath her. “Whoever you can find!”

  The streets of Black Keep turned to mud in the rain, and while the current drizzle wasn’t heavy, it had been falling since the previous day. Only the main square and the road from the gate were paved in stone, and Saana slogged past rows of houses on stilts, like giant insects, until she reached the flagstones and managed to set a better pace. All the same, she was breathing hard by the time she reached the stronghouse.

  “This man needs to see Lord Blackcreek,” she shouted up at the gate tower, and cursed inwardly when Ganalel’s face appeared, the guard with whom she’d nearly come to blows on her last visit.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Who do you think is here?” Saana demanded, pulling her hood back to reveal her face and hair. “What other woman would demand entry?”

  Ganalel sneered down at her. “His Lordship is busy.”

  Saana could almost smell the lie as he disappeared from her view again. She’d have been surprised if Ganalel even knew exactly where his lord was, let alone whether or not he’d be prepared to receive her. She supposed she could plead with him, but had a nasty feeling that would make no difference.

  Well, this was no time for a half-sail.

  “Ganalel of Black Keep!” she thundered, raising her voice as loud as she could without losing control of its pitch. “This man names you liar! You have no honour!”

  There weren’t many people in and around the main square, but they were definitely paying attention. She took another breath and continued. “You are craven and coward! You are too scared of this man to do your duty and open this gate!”

  People were starting to laugh. Now Ganalel’s face reappeared, scowling instead of sneering. “Listen here, Raider scum—”

  Saana changed tactics. “You fuck goats!”

  Ganalel’s eyes widened to the point of bulging. He disappeared, and Saana thought for a moment or two that he’d just left to let her shout at an empty guard tower, but then there was a rattling of chains and the drawbridge began to lower. Saana stood back as it gained momentum and crashed down at her feet to reveal Ganalel, spear in his hands, trying to shake off the restraining grip of Sagel, another guard.

  “—fucking kill her…”

  Saana stepped forward onto the drawbridge without waiting for the Naridans to sort themselves out. She needed to speak to Daimon Blackcreek, and the first obstacle to her doing so had been navigated.

  Ganalel stamped on Sagel’s foot, causing the other man to release him with a cry of pain and stumble away, and came at Saana with his spear lowered and a murderous light in his eyes.

  The problem was, he didn’t know how to fight. So few of the Flatlanders did. Saana had dodged the spears of untrained, frightened farmers fifteen years ago, and while she wasn’t a warrior by trade she still trained with her weapons against those who were. So when Ganalel jabbed his spear at her midriff with an angry yell he was slow and clumsy, and when she sidestepped it and grabbed the haft his reactions were far too slow for him to muster anything more than a momentary look of surprise before she closed the remaining distance between them and slammed her fist into his face.

  Ganalel wasn’t large even by Naridan standards, and although some people seemed to get tougher with age, he apparently wasn’t one. Her punch knocked a spray of brown spittle loose from his mouth and the man himself to the wooden boards of the drawbridge, leaving his spear in her grip. Ganalel landed on his hands and knees and Saana buried a kick into his ribs that blasted the breath out of him and left him collapsed on his side, curled up and keening miserably.

  “What is the meaning of this?!”

  Saana looked up to see Daimon Blackcreek, who’d appeared in the entrance. The Naridan lord’s eyes flashed dangerously in his hood as he advanced on her with one hand on the hilt of his longblade and the other resting on its pure white scabbard.

  “Nalon told this man that one of her people is in danger in the forest,” Saana said simply. “He said we need your help.”

  “And so this lord hears shouting, and comes to find you attacking one of his people?” Blackcreek demanded angrily. Saana realised she was still holding Ganalel’s spear, and dropped it.

  “He would not let this man see you. And he opened your gate because this man called him bad names.”

  Blackcreek’s jaw worked for a moment, and the glance he cast at the wheezing Ganalel was not a friendly one. “Who is in danger?”

  “A woman called Chara,” Saana told him, not expecting it to mean anything.

  “Your corpse-painter?”

  Saana didn’t bother to mask her surprise. “The same.”

  “Nalon told this lord of her,” Blackcreek muttered, by way of explanation.

  “Nalon says go find her we must,” Saana said, “but he also says he heard from shepherds that things called razorclaws have killed sheep and may hunt her, so we will need you.”

  “Razorclaws? This far south, so early? That is a bad omen.” Blackcreek cast a look up at the sky, as though checking whether his perception of time was accurate, then looked back at her and seemed to come to a decision. “Follow.”

  “Lord…” Ganalel groaned from where he lay on the drawbridge, but Blackcreek had already started to turn away and head back into his stronghouse.

  “If you are still there when this lord returns, he will ride over you!” he shouted over his shoulder. Saana hurried after him, past the shocked-looking Sagel and into the first courtyard, its flagstones now slick with rain.

  “Have you ever ridden a dragon before?” Blackcreek asked. His pace was brisk but Saana’s legs were just as long, and she settled into stride next to him.

  “Ridden a…” Saana’s mind boggled at the concept. “We have no dragons on Tjakorsha.”

  “Have you ever ridden anything?” Blackcreek asked, as they passed over the bridge into the second courtyard.

  “No animals,” Saana admitted. “Only ships.”

  Blackcreek’s eyebrows raised for a moment, and the hint of a smile quirked the corner of his mouth nearest to her. “Well, this will be interesting.”

  Saana tried to keep her voice level. “You intend this man to ride a dragon?”
>
  “This lord intends you to sit behind him on a dragon and try not to fall off,” Blackcreek corrected her, heading for the stables. “We will need a mount to get to your corpse-painter quickly, and to help us drive away any razorclaws that may have found her. You will need this lord for that. He will need you to speak to your corpse-painter and explain to her that he means no harm.”

  “This sounds wise,” Saana said, swallowing. He wanted her to ride on a dragon? This was not the help she had anticipated, had she even anticipated any help at all. She wanted to suggest that perhaps she could just run alongside, but she’d no idea if she could keep pace with one of the monstrous Naridan mounts. Besides which, her pride would not let her show fear in front of this man.

  “Tavi!” Blackcreek shouted. The huge wooden stable doors were closed: they were easily twice Saana’s height and looked hard to move, but the smaller door set within them was ajar. Blackcreek didn’t slow as he pushed it inwards. “Tavi!”

  “Lord?” a voice answered as Saana followed him in. She looked up to see who had spoken and—

  By the Dark Father, the smell.

  Saana almost gagged. It wasn’t that the dragon stink was bad, so much as it was simply overpowering. It was thick and sour and grabbed at her throat like she was trying to swallow sand. She coughed, trying to clear her airways, and looked around.

  The dragon house was dark, which was unavoidable given the thickness of the walls and sparseness of the windows. Directly in front of her was a Naridan man bowing to Blackcreek, and beyond him…

  … were the dragon stalls.

  A dark lump shifted in the gloom beyond Blackcreek and his man. There was a hissing roar that sounded like one of the great leviathans of the southern waters expelling its lungs into the air, and a huge shadow got to what proved to be its feet, then lumbered forwards. Even with a thick metal gate between her and it, even with the two Naridans closer to it than she was, the sight of a war dragon nearly loosened Saana’s bladder.

  It at least superficially resembled the frillnecks she’d seen pulling carts and ploughing fields, but this creature was to that as Ristjaan’s favoured weapon had been to a child’s stick-sword. The dragon’s eyes were nearly on a level with hers, and the top of its back reached above her head, but quite the most terrifying thing about it was its skull. Instead of the comparatively small, rounded frill of its kin in the town, this creature’s frill reached up and back, and was tipped with six spikes. More alarming still were the four long horns that curved outwards from its brow, two upwards and two downwards, and reached forward almost to the end of its muzzle.