Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Understanding dawned.

  His jaw dropped.

  * * *

  The dragon’s head streamed water as it burst through the wall to Agenta’s left. For a heartbeat the kalisch’s wonder overshadowed her fear as she gazed at the crest of copper spikes atop its head, the scratches and weapon marks across its snout, the tinge of verdigris round its nostrils. Then its lips peeled back and she saw gobbets of flesh and shreds of clothing trapped between its teeth. Its breath smelled of corruption. Flashes of sorcery from the battle between Imerle and Mazana reflected in its eyes, and Agenta felt herself sinking into the oblivion of those glistening golden orbs.

  Warner shouted a warning, but the kalisch couldn’t move—

  Someone bundled into her and she staggered forward a pace before sprawling to her hands and knees. One of her fingernails snagged in the gap between two mosaic stones and was torn loose. She ignored the pain. Knowing the dragon could pounce on her at any instant, she dived forward, then lurched upright and turned so quickly she almost spun herself from her feet.

  In time to see the dragon’s jaws close about Farrell as gently as if the creature were picking up one of its young. Farrell, who must have given her that push.

  The merchant gave a coughing wheeze as his breath was squeezed from his chest. His eyes clouded with horror. The dragon began to withdraw, and Farrell’s hands reached out for something to grab on to. If Agenta had been holding her last throwing star she would have hurled it at one of the dragon’s eyes, but the missile remained strapped to her wrist. So instead she tottered forward and seized one of Farrell’s hands. The futility of the move struck her. What was she going to do, play tug-of-war with a dragon? Would she hold Farrell still while Warner prized the beast’s teeth apart, maybe talked it into taking Imerle instead?

  Farrell gripped her hand with a strength born of desperation. As the dragon retreated Agenta was yanked from her feet and dragged across the floor. She hit the wall of water and felt a slap of cold. Then the sea closed about her. There were bubbles in her eyes. Ahead an expanse of copper scales marked the dragon’s flank, while below a glint of talons showed as one of the creature’s feet churned the seabed to smoky brown. Agenta hadn’t thought to snatch a breath before the water claimed her. Her lungs were already burning. There was nothing she could do to help Farrell, and his gesture in saving her would be rendered meaningless if she died here. She should return to the throne room.

  Like hell she would.

  Beyond the merchant the dragon’s eyes shone like beacons. Perhaps the beast might open its jaws to try to scoop her up too and in doing so give Farrell a chance to swim clear.

  Then Farrell’s hand slipped from hers, and she realized he had pulled it back to break the contact. She reached after him, but he was already retreating into the blue as the dragon’s head twisted up and away. A moment later all she could see of him was a smudge of pink from his shirt. Then that too was gone. She kicked her legs to follow. The currents left in the dragon’s wake were already drawing her away from the throne room—

  Hands grabbed her ankles, and she was wrenched back into the chamber.

  She hit the floor and lay shivering, coughing up water between her choked sobs. Her ears were filled with the clash of swords, the hiss of quenched sorcery, Warner’s voice growling something unintelligible. Blood ran from her finger where her nail had been torn away. You fool! she silently raged at Farrell. Doubtless he’d intended only to knock her out of the dragon’s way, rather than sacrifice himself, but that wasn’t the point. It should have been her the creature took, not him!

  He had no right.

  A shout from Warner brought her attention back to her immediate surroundings. She looked across to see a stranger with skin like granite step into the throne room through the wall of water a few paces away. His sodden green robes were torn and tattered, and in his hand he held a broadsword.

  A glance round to get his bearings.

  Then he took a stride toward Balen and plunged his weapon into the mage’s back.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DREGS of the wave created by the dragon’s coming swirled about Senar’s legs, immersing the roof terrace in ankle-deep froth. A stone’s throw away the creature’s head rose from the sea. In its mouth was a figure, and the Guardian’s blood ran cold. Mazana? No, the unfortunate soul’s screams were unmistakably male. The dragon shook its victim like a dog would a rat, then threw back its head and tossed the man into the air before catching him and wolfing him down. One of the emira’s followers? Senar shook his head. Not tall enough to be the chief minister, not … crunchy … enough to be the executioner.

  Another burst of red light flashed beneath the waves, and the dragon began to sink into the sea once more.

  Senar’s expression hardened. Oh no you don’t. The creature’s prey hadn’t been Mazana on this occasion, but next time …

  Gathering his Will, the Guardian delivered a slap to the beast’s snout. To the dragon it would feel no more weighty than a puff of air, yet still its head swung round.

  Senar’s pulse kicked in his neck.

  The creature stared at him. Its golden eyes were orbs of smoky glass, and along its neck was a crest of copper spines tangled with fireweed. When it trumpeted, the Guardian caught a whiff of rotting flesh. Protruding from the scales behind its left ear was a spear, a gift no doubt from one of the sailors on the Dragon Hunt. Something told Senar the beast had returned the gift with interest.

  Then a light went off in his head. Thus far his only thought had been to draw the dragon away from the throne room, but now an idea had come to him. An idea appalling in its audacity. If he could reach that spear …

  With a roar that eclipsed the thunder of the sea, the dragon surged toward the roof terrace. It felt to Senar like he was standing in the path of an avalanche. He sensed the twins at his shoulder.

  “Stay behind me,” he shouted. “I will fashion a shield.”

  “To the Sender…”

  “… with that, Guardian.”

  “The dragon will not…”

  “… leave the sea.”

  “We should flee this place…”

  “… while we still can.”

  Senar paused. If he told the sisters what he planned to do they would probably turn on him, yet if he offered no explanation for staying he could hardly expect them to stand with him. “You go. I will keep the creature entertained.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if the dragon’s attention is on us, it can’t also be on those in the throne room.”

  It sounded weak even to his own ears. How long could he and the twins hope to distract a creature that size? How were they supposed to fight it when their weapons wouldn’t even scratch its armor? Yet when he glanced back moments later the sisters were still behind him. Tali’s eyes were dull with pain, Mili’s wide with fright. They weren’t grinning anymore, but neither were they making to flee.

  Senar still held the dagger he’d pulled from Tali’s shoulder, and he transferred it from his left hand to his right. “Our blades will be useless against dragon scales. If you get the chance, go for the eyes.”

  Neither of the twins replied.

  He spun back to the sea to find the dragon just twenty armspans away. It trumpeted another challenge that doused Senar in spray. Taking a breath, he gathered his Will and began weaving layer upon layer of his power into a barrier in front of him. He angled the shield into the terrace, hoping that when the dragon struck, the force of the blow would be directed down into the roof. Behind him the twins were murmuring a prayer to the Sender.

  Ten armspans. The dragon’s mouth opened wide in greeting.

  Five.

  Senar braced himself.

  The dragon’s head slammed into his Will-shield with a force the Guardian felt as a stab of agony through his skull. Lights flashed before his eyes, and he groaned. It seemed as if the whole palace shuddered at the impact. Senar’s bones vibrated in time. He stumbled back into the twin
s. A fissure appeared in the terrace beside his left foot.

  But the Will-barrier held.

  The dragon recoiled from the collision, dazed. Then it darted forward again. With a noise like a gauntleted fist hitting an open palm, it smashed into the Will-shield a second time. This time Senar’s pain was so intense he thought one of the twins must have stabbed him in the head. The fissure by his foot widened, and water came bubbling up from the flooded corridor below. Any moment now the ground was going to open up and swallow him. But better the ground than the dragon, he supposed.

  The creature growled as it readied itself for another attack. Senar let his Will-shield fall. Maybe the barrier could withstand a third blow, but the Guardian’s head couldn’t. As the shield faded he pulled back his right arm and sent his dagger spinning end over end toward the dragon’s right eye. The weapon buried itself in the orb, and the creature gave a salty bellow. It blinked its metal eyelids, then lifted a clawed foot and cuffed at the eye.

  Senar drew his sword, his gaze flickering to the spear jutting from behind the dragon’s left ear. The weapon was sunk so deep into the creature’s flesh that none of its metal head was visible. It was farther back than he’d thought, and higher too, but he might still be able to reach it if he jumped. First he had to stay clear of the beast’s jaws, though.

  With a shriek that parted his hair, the creature came on again.

  “Scatter!” he called to the twins.

  As if they needed telling.

  Senar hurled himself to his right across a roof terrace slick with water.

  * * *

  Kempis watched openmouthed as the stone-skin tugged his sword from the Gilgamarian sorcerer.

  After emerging through the wall to the septia’s left, the green-robed man had sized up the chamber before making for Jug-Ears. Kempis’s shouted warning had come too late to save the Gilgamarian, and now yet another water-mage would be joining the stampede through Shroud’s Gate. What did these stone-skins have against sorcerers? And why had the newcomer killed Jug-Ears when the likes of Imerle and Mazana battled only a short distance away? Perhaps for no other reason than the Gilgamarian had been in his path. The way was open now, though, wasn’t it? If the stone-skin wanted to advance on the women, Kempis wasn’t going to stop him.

  The trouble was, the newcomer had already recognized Kempis and appeared unwilling to turn his back on him. Smart man. So rather than attacking Imerle and Mazana, the stone-skin came for the septia instead. Alone, Kempis knew he wouldn’t last long against the stranger. Fortunately, though, Jug-Ears’s red-faced kinsman—a trita judging by the stripes on his soldier—had taken exception to the stone-skin butchering his friend. He hurled himself at the man, his sword whistling through the leaden air. Kempis held back a smile. The Gilgamarians wanted Imerle dead, the stone-skin wanted Imerle dead, yet here they were fighting each other. Maybe he should step in to clear things up.

  He’d have to think about that one.

  Kempis hadn’t got a good look at Loop’s killer when he encountered him in the Shallows. Closer now, he saw the man’s face was covered with bruises, and his sodden green robe was slashed in dozens of places. Whoever had inflicted those wounds was a better warrior than Red-Face, though, for the stone-skin easily repelled the trita’s initial onslaught before driving him back toward Jug-Ears and the flint-eyed woman. One of the stone-skin’s thrusts, only half blocked, sliced open Red-Face’s right cheek, and the trita huddled behind his shield as blows crashed down upon it like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

  A flash of light from Imerle’s sorcerous clash with Mazana roused Kempis from his reverie. It seemed he wouldn’t get away with leaving Red-Face to do all the work, so he drew his sword and advanced. His preferred bellow-and-charge style of fighting was as likely to distract Red-Face as the stone-skin, so he moved left in an effort to flank his foe. The stone-skin responded by putting his back to the wall of water through which the dragon had appeared earlier.

  Now if the creature would just return for its main course …

  Red-Face attacked the stone-skin, his sword dancing in his hand. The stone-skin was forced onto the defensive, yet still he managed to keep one eye on Kempis as the septia edged further round. All Kempis had to do was wait for his foe to be distracted by one of Red-Face’s strikes—

  Got you.

  Extending his sword arm, Kempis lunged forward.

  And almost impaled himself on the stone-skin’s blade. An eyeblink ago the man’s weapon had been parrying a blow from Red-Face. Now its tip was in front of Kempis, and he had to twist his body to avoid running himself through. It should have been impossible for anyone to maneuver a broadsword that quickly, yet the stone-skin had already recovered the blade and now swung it in a cut that the septia only just blocked in time.

  Kempis grimaced. He’d never been much good at swordplay, but then what was the point of being a septia if you couldn’t get someone else to do your fighting for you? He tried to time his attacks now so they landed with Red-Face’s—not even the stone-skin’s blade could be in two places at once—yet somehow his enemy’s sword was always there to parry. It wasn’t as if the bastard was only defending, either. A decapitating slash had Kempis jumping back off balance, and he stumbled and went down on one knee.

  The stone-skin turned on Red-Face. After blocking a lunge from the Gilgamarian, he stabbed out with his free hand and delivered a punch to the trita’s forehead that knocked the man onto his back.

  Before the stone-skin could move in for the kill, Kempis bellowed to distract him. He had to admit, he liked how things were going so far—he did the shouting and Red-Face did the bleeding.

  Playing to my strengths.

  His foe’s head swung round.

  * * *

  Senar rolled to evade the dragon’s jaws and came to his feet again. Mili stood beside him, but Tali was nowhere to be seen—doubtless she’d dived left instead of right when the dragon came for them and was now hidden from Senar’s view by the creature’s head. She must have attacked at that moment because from the dragon’s opposite flank came a peal of metal as her sword deflected off its scales. As the beast turned to confront her, gaps opened up between the plates on the side of its neck facing Senar. He darted forward, his sword stabbing for one of those openings.

  Only for it to close at the last moment as the dragon shifted position. Senar’s blade ricocheted off its armor with a tortured scream of steel.

  The creature swung toward him, and he scuttled back.

  This was hopeless. They could chip away at the dragon’s scales all day, yet it would still be their weapons that gave way first. Senar’s only chance of ending this was to reach the spear in the creature’s neck, but for now the weapon remained tantalizingly out of range, five armspans back along the beast’s neck. He needed to lure the dragon farther out of the sea, but how?

  Mili skipped past the creature’s snout. She could not reach its eyes with her sword so instead she thrust her weapon into its gaping mouth. Her needle-thin blade clattered off its teeth before tracing a red line across its lower lip. The dragon flinched, then snapped at her. Fast as the beast was, Mili was faster, her long stride taking her past the dragon and out of range.

  Or so Senar thought.

  Jets of water shot from the creature’s nostrils, striking the woman and sending her tumbling. She rolled to the edge of the terrace overlooking the courtyard. The dragon raised a clawed foot onto the roof and dragged its front quarters from the sea. The terrace groaned and shifted. Tiles crumbled round its talons, fissures running outward like cracks in shattered glass.

  Senar heard Tali attack again from the beast’s opposite flank in an attempt to draw its eye, her blade clanging off its armor. The dragon seemed not to notice.

  My turn.

  The Guardian lashed out with his Will at the side of its head. His stroke landed with a sound like a bell tolling. The dragon paused, and that pause gave Mili time to scramble upright. Pulling back her right arm, she
flung her sword like a spear at the dragon’s face. No doubt she’d aimed for one of its eyes, but Senar did not see if her blade found its mark. His gaze was fixed on Mili, for in making the throw she’d sacrificed the heartbeat she needed to dive clear.

  Ignoring the thrown sword, the dragon lunged forward.

  Senar shouted a warning.

  Mili stepped back off the roof, her hands reaching out to grab the edge as she fell.

  The creature’s teeth closed on nothing.

  Senar saw his chance. The dragon’s lunge had brought its head forward, and the spear embedded in its neck was now within reach. Sheathing his sword, the Guardian sprang forward. A part of him couldn’t believe he was doing this. A part of him expected the dragon’s head to turn at the last moment, and for Senar to find himself charging down its throat. A fitting end that would have made to this sorry affair. Instead the dragon continued to sniff after Mili, and the Guardian closed to within a few paces of the beast, then gathered himself and leapt.

  At the point of takeoff, though, the terrace lurched beneath him, and his leap became more trip than jump.

  He crashed into a wall of dragon scales.

  * * *

  When Karmel came to, she was lying on her back. Water lapped at the corners of her eyes, and there was water in her ears too, muting the sounds from the palace about her. As she sat up those sounds burst into life. On all sides water splashed into the courtyard from windows along the walls, and above that came the clank of a sword striking what she assumed was a shield. Karmel frowned. It had come from the terrace. Evidently some newcomer had climbed from the flooded corridors to pick a fight with the twins, and yet how could anyone think of settling scores when there was a dragon on the loose? Had Karmel been unconscious so long that the creature had moved on?