by Marc Turner
Two more assailants closed in, a man and a woman. Senar smelled juripa spirits on the woman’s breath as she spat the words of her chant at him. Holding her sword two-handed, she swung the weapon so violently that, when Senar swayed back, she stumbled off balance. The Guardian flashed his blade across her throat. This was beginning to feel more like slaughter than fighting, but the work still needed doing. A sword in a novice’s hands cuts just as sharp as one in a weaponsmaster’s—as the Everlord’s example had proved.
The second attacker wielded his longsword like a dueling rapier. Senar blocked his first thrust with his shield, then countered. His opponent was plainly not accustomed to the weight of his weapon, for the Guardian’s lunge took him through the heart before he could lift the blade to the guard position. As he collapsed, the fingers of his left hand curled round the rim of Senar’s shield and tore it from his grasp.
Senar looked about him for the next enemy. The chanting and the sounds of fighting had started to fade as if the battle were moving away from him—or the librarians had been put to flight. More than a dozen white-robed figures lay sprawled in death within the range of the torchlight. None remained upright.
And there was no sign of Mazana.
The Guardian’s stomach knotted. He cast a fearful eye over the corpses about him, but the Storm Lady’s was not among them. Could she have slipped away during the clash? Senar hadn’t seen her after he went to Greave’s aid because his attention had been fixed on his opponents. It would have been simple enough for one of the enemy to circle round and attack her from the rear, but then wouldn’t she have shouted a warning?
A bank of mist swept over him, concealing everything beyond an arm’s length in each direction. Abruptly the clash of combat started up loud again to his right. A man’s roar sounded, followed by a startled cry, a clank of metal, a woman’s scream. But no chanting. If the librarians had indeed retreated, whose scream had Senar just heard? The image of Mazana’s female slant-eyed bodyguard appeared in his mind’s eye. Had the emira’s soldiers turned on the Storm Lady’s followers when the danger posed by the librarians had passed? Would they be coming now for Greave? For me?
The mists parted, and Senar caught sight of Greave crouching among the white-robed bodies. Of all the people to survive, it would have to be the champion. One of the librarians—a woman—was also alive. The champion smiled as he seized a handful of her hair and wrenched her to her knees before drawing the barbs of his fish-spine sword across her throat. Wide-eyed, the woman tried to take up her chant again, but her words bubbled in the blood gushing from her neck. Greave gave her a push, and she toppled forward. Her forehead cracked against the floor.
Another tremor shook the chamber. Senar leaned against one of the pillars. For a moment he thought he heard laughter from deeper in the room, but it was swallowed by the fog. Then a new sound reached him.
Footfalls.
Greave had heard them too, for he straightened and turned toward the noise.
A shadowy outline in the murk resolved itself into Septia Cilin Rai. He staggered toward Senar. His hair was matted with blood, his uniform dark and torn round a cut to his side. Halting a few paces away, he took in the corpses on the ground before squinting into the mist beyond the circle of pillars.
He’s looking for Mazana.
The soldier took a breath as if summoning up his strength. His gaze flickered from Senar to Greave, then back again.
“Kill him,” Cilin said to the Guardian.
CHAPTER 15
THIS CAN’T be happening, was all Karmel could think.
When Veran’s forearm curled round her neck, her first instinct was that he’d lost his balance and thrown an arm about her to stop himself falling. Even when she was lifted into the air she expected his grip to ease after he’d warned her what would happen the next time she questioned his orders. Instead the cold metal of his armguard continued to press against her throat. She gasped for a breath that would not come.
He really means to kill me.
The realization froze her heart, then she began to thrash about, her indignation as much as her fear giving her strength. This was all because she was considering returning to Olaire? Did secrecy matter so much to Veran that he would kill her for it? She wanted to scream at him to release her, but when she opened her mouth all that came out was a wheeze. She hooked her fingers round his armguard and attempted to pry it from her neck.
His grasp did not falter.
Karmel thrust her head back, trying to butt him in the face, but she succeeded only in wrenching the muscles of her neck. She kicked back with her right leg, hoping to catch him where it hurt, but instead she dealt him only a glancing blow to the inside of his knee. Frantic, she reached over her shoulder, intending to gouge his eyes or grab a handful of hair. He ducked his head out of range.
One of her flailing hands brushed the empty sheaths of her baldric. She inwardly cursed. If she’d brought back just one of her throwing knives from the control room—
Then it came to her.
My sword!
The blade was broken, yes, but even a broken weapon could deliver a mighty sting. She grabbed the hilt.
Veran’s hand closed round her wrist. But since his right arm was about her neck, he had to be using his left hand to hold her. And if that arm was broken …
Karmel pulled on the hilt with all her strength. The blade shifted a finger’s width, but no farther. In an effort to break the priest’s grasp, she twisted her wrist until her skin burned in his grip. Nothing. She yanked her hand from side to side, knowing each wrench would send a spike of agony up Veran’s arm. Still he held her tight. His breathing was ragged, and Karmel pictured the broken bones of his arm grinding together. She couldn’t imagine what it cost him to keep her still, but he managed it.
Karmel tried to tense her neck muscles against the force of his grip, but to no effect. Her eyes were watering from the pain of her swollen jaw. She’d bitten her tongue, and she tasted the metallic warmth of her blood. The boat started to rock. For an instant Karmel’s boots touched the bottom of the craft. It dawned on her that Veran must be leaning back to keep her feet off the ground.
And an idea surfaced.
Her gaze fixed on the prow, a couple of paces away. She let her struggles diminish, hoping the priest would think her strength was failing. His grasp didn’t ease, but then she hadn’t expected it to. All she wanted was the slightest relaxation in his stance …
Now!
She threw her weight forward, dragging Veran with her a step.
A step was all she needed, for with the bottom of the boat curving up to the prow she could now place her feet on the boards. Tensing, she pushed off to propel herself backward.
Veran teetered before stumbling back a pace. Karmel thought he would steady himself, but his feet must have tangled because suddenly he was toppling backward, taking her with him.
The cave tilted.
Karmel heard Veran’s head crack against wood—the oar-bench?—then she landed on him. He grunted. His grip on her throat loosened, and she clawed at his arm, twisting her neck left and right, ignoring the stabs of white-hot pain each movement caused in her jaw.
She was free.
Scrambling on all fours, she splashed through shallow water to the prow. If she threw herself over the side there was no way he’d be able to swim after her with a broken arm. As she tried to clamber upright, though, Veran seized her right foot, and she sprawled to the boards. She kicked out at the hand holding her, then flipped onto her back and snatched for her sword. Desperation made her fingers clumsy.
The blade slid clear.
She’d only intended to use it to keep Veran away, but the priest had already closed the distance between them. The fingers of his right hand reached for her throat, his weight bearing down on her.
Her sword buried itself to the hilt in his gut.
Air hissed between his teeth. For a few heartbeats he remained on top of her, his face a handspan from
hers, his eyes fever-bright, a muscle in his cheek twitching. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. She tried to get her hands under him so she could push him away, but her strength was gone, and in the end it was Veran who levered himself up—Karmel’s blade pulling free—before rocking back on his haunches and collapsing against the oar-bench.
The priestess lurched to the prow, her sword held out in front of her in case he came for her again. Her right hand was trembling on the hilt, so she moved her left to join it. Strangely, that only seemed to make the trembling worse. Veran was shaking too. Blood oozed from his stomach wound, and Karmel saw her own exhaustion and despair mirrored in his features. He watched her in silence, his chest heaving in and out as if he’d been the one nearly strangled. Each breath brought a grimace to his face. His eyelids began to droop.
When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “Forgive me … girl,” he said through red-flecked lips. “Just … following orders.”
Karmel’s hackles rose. “Whose orders?”
Veran did not reply. His right arm moved, and the priestess raised her sword higher. But he was only reaching for the wedding band on his left hand. He tugged it off his finger and held it out.
“Don’t let her—” His voice cracked. “Don’t let her be alone at the end.”
Karmel’s voice rose an octave. “Whose orders?”
But Veran’s chest had already fallen still. His eyes rolled back in his head. The ring slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the boards.
Fearing some final deception, the priestess watched him for a time, her head thick with incomprehension. What had she done? What had he made her do? He’d left her no choice, she told herself, but when had she ever had a choice in this Shroud-cursed business?
This can’t be happening.
Her anger and fear came boiling up, and she staggered across the boat. Seizing Veran by the shoulders, she shrieked, “Whose orders?”
His head lolled backward, banging off the oar-bench.
Karmel released him.
She wasn’t sure when she’d started weeping, but she could feel the tears running down her cheeks. She retreated a step, only to trip and fall, taking the impact on her elbows just as she had three days ago when Veran launched their boat from that Olairian bay.
The priest had slumped onto one side, his face half submerged, his right eye staring back at her. The water round him was streaked red. When Karmel looked at her hands she saw they were bloody too, and there was more blood—Veran’s blood—on her shattered blade.
With a sob, she flung the sword into the gloom.
It clanged against the wall of the cave and splashed into the sea.
* * *
Agenta watched the dragon bear down on a Storm Guard halfway to shore. The soldier had tried to swim for the caves at the base of the cliff, doubtless hoping the creature’s attention would remain fixed on the Icewing. The dragon, though, having punched a hole in the ship’s hull, seemed content to pick off stragglers in the water while it waited for the vessel to sink. And sink the Icewing surely would, for while four Storm Guards had been sent below to help at the pumps, on each occasion Agenta looked over the rail she found the sea was closer than the last time she’d checked.
The distant swimmer shrieked as the dragon reached him. He was tugged beneath the waves. Bubbles broke the surface. Then all was still.
Agenta scanned the waters near the Icewing for her father. Beneath the rope that Farrell had tossed over the rail, a mob of dignitaries, apparently unaware the ship was going down, kicked and splashed as they battled to be next to climb. Other passengers, Dutia Elemy Meddes among them, sat on the shattered masts, waving their arms for attention as if they thought those on board might not have noticed them. Yet still there was no sign of Rethell.
He’s dead, a voice inside Agenta said.
She refused to hear it.
If he were alive, you would have seen him by—
Shut up!
Footfalls sounded to the kalischa’s left. She turned to see the Storm Guard octa approaching, thumbs tucked into his belt. He halted in front of her.
“Got any more of them white arrows?”
“Two.”
He held out a hand.
Agenta did not move. “What’s your plan?” she said.
The octa gestured to where the dragon had claimed the Storm Guard. “Can’t go on pricking that thing one needle at a time. When it next comes within range, we hit it with all we’ve got, all at once.”
Agenta considered. A volley concentrated on the dragon’s eyes or nostrils might do for the creature, but the beast had been quick to protect its vulnerable areas thus far. And if the attack proved unsuccessful, those on the Icewing would be left with no way of repelling the dragon’s next assault. With the ship sinking, though, what choice did they have?
“How much is all you’ve got?” Agenta asked.
“Including yours, eight arrows. Two shortspears.”
“Eight arrows. And how many archers?”
“Seven.”
She regarded him coolly. “Sounds to me like you’re one short.”
“Sounds to me like you’re wasting my time.”
A shout came from a lookout near the starboard cathead. “Ship to port! Coming this way!”
Agenta looked north and east, expecting to see Cauroy’s vessel bearing down on the Icewing. The Majestic, though, was in no position to mount a rescue, for its mainmast had been toppled and a bronze-scaled dragon was even now lifting its front claws to the starboard rail, only to trumpet as the sea about it vaporized. The vessel that the lookout had spotted was farther west, riding a wave of water-magic …
Agenta’s breath caught. The Crest! There was no mistaking its flag or the shape of its bow. But how could that be? At the speed the Icewing had overtaken it, Agenta had expected the Gilgamarian ship to still be far to the north. But then perhaps Balen had merely let the other vessel pass so he could follow it at a discreet distance. Had Rethell anticipated Imerle’s treachery and made sure help would be at hand?
The octa said, “I don’t recognize the flag she’s flying.”
“It’s my father’s ship.”
The soldier squinted at her. If he realized the balance of power between them had just shifted, it did not show in his manner. “The water-mage on board, is he strong enough to hold off the dragon while we move people across?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about sorcerous arrows? Got any on board?”
“No.”
“Then we finish this now.” He held out his hand again for Agenta’s arrows.
She did not move.
The octa muttered something, then spat on the deck. “Have it your way, lady. If you want in on this, though, you do what I tell you. I pick the target, right? The dragon’s eyes, nose, mouth, whatever. Got it?”
“I’m just about keeping up so far.”
He turned away.
Agenta looked at Selis. “Mage, use your sorcery to get people back on deck. Start with whoever the dragon targets.” And find my father, she almost added.
Selis gave a mocking bow.
The octa had rejoined his troops near the steps to the aft deck. Aside from the officer there were a dozen soldiers, seven holding bows, two spears, and three pikes. Among the archers was the man in the red head scarf who had lent Agenta his bow for the shot at the briar shark. His clothes were soaked, and he had a cut along his jawline that leaked blood into the collar of his shirt. He was the only archer without a sorcerous arrow nocked to his bow, so Agenta passed him her spare. He accepted it with a flash of teeth.
“No sighters this time, right?”
Right.
The octa began lecturing his troops on what he expected of them, but the kalischa was only half listening. Yet again she scanned the sea for her father. If Rethell had been caught under one of the sails, he should have swum clear by now—
Agenta’s heart leapt. There, at the end of the mizzenmast!
A scream went up from a blond-haired serving-girl off the starboard bow. The dragon was gliding through the water toward her, and she started swimming for the ship. If Agenta had still been with Selis she would have told him to lift Rethell on board first, the serving-girl be damned, but it was too late to return to the mage now. The girl was plucked from the sea as if by an invisible hand. Sobbing, she held down her sodden skirt as if she thought the dragon might try to look up it. The beast’s head broke the waves below her, and she screamed a second time.
She was too high for the creature to reach, though. The dragon, after considering its escaped prey, sank down into the water again.
The next swimmer to draw its eye was a balding Storm Guard off the Icewing’s starboard quarter. From beside Agenta the octa swore—not, the kalischa suspected, because the dragon had targeted one of the octa’s troops, but because it had selected another victim too far from the ship. As if it knows we’re waiting to shoot at it. The dragon drew close to the balding Storm Guard, and he was snatched into the air like the serving-girl before. The girl, meanwhile, fell back into the sea with a wail.
The dragon swam past the soldier.
Agenta shifted her gaze to Rethell. Then frowned. Her father hadn’t moved since she’d last looked at him. An odd time to take a breather.
A growl from the octa. The dragon had chosen its next victim: a dignitary swimming on his back abeam to starboard. Improbably, the man still had on his head the hat he must have been wearing when the wave struck.
