“He was going to row away and leave you,” she says, her scratchy voice joyful.
“Sorrowlynn!” Golmarr calls. A rope ladder is dropped down the side of the ship. I walk to the ladder, close my dripping hands on it, and climb. As I step onto the deck, I draw my sword.
My companions stand on one side of the deck, the Ilaadi on the other, and no one is moving. That is when I notice the Ilaadi princess clasped against Yerengul’s chest, his knife pressed against the hollow below her ear. His lip is split, and a thin stream of blood is dripping from one nostril.
Yassim’s eyes are filled with anger, her breathing is ragged. She starts to turn toward me, but Yerengul says, “One move and you die, Princess.” She rams her elbow into his ribs, and his hold on her tightens. “I am an Antharian barbarian, remember?” he growls. “Those are your words, my lady, not mine. Do you doubt I will kill you if you do not do as I say?” The princess grits her teeth, and her body goes perfectly still. Yerengul grins, and I wonder if he is enjoying himself.
“We have no wish to kill or fight you, Princess Yassim,” Golmarr says, though he never takes his eyes from the six Ilaadi sailors standing opposite us. “We need a ship and are prepared to pay for our passage.”
Yassim trembles with outrage. “This is a royal ship! We are not for hire. Especially to a band of spineless Antharian ruffians!”
Golmarr’s stance visibly stiffens. “Spineless? You call us spineless when you outnumber us? If we were spineless, we wouldn’t have had the courage to fight your crew. The Ilaadi are reputed to be the best assassins in the world, yet it is not one of my men lying dead at the bottom of the sea with an arrow in his neck.” He takes a deep breath and in a calmer voice says, “I ask again. We need a ship and we are prepared to pay handsomely for passage.”
“Passage where?” the princess snaps. “If you want me to take you to my kingdom so I can feed the woman to the sandworm and put an end to his havoc, there is no need to pay me. I will do it for nothing.”
Golmarr is silent for a long moment, measuring and remeasuring the princess. His hands tighten on his staff and he says, “We need passage to Draykioch.”
Yassim looks askance at her crew. The shortest man shakes his head. “As I said before, this is a royal ship. We do not transport passengers,” she says, glaring back at Golmarr. Her gaze moves to me. It is so cold, I am surprised it does not freeze my sodden clothes to my body. “Why do you want to go to the Serpent’s Island? So this princess can wake another dragon, like she has woken the sandworm?”
“He is already awake and waiting for us,” a grating voice calls. Every person on the ship turns toward the voice. Nayadi is tottering on the boat’s railing, her bare feet curled around the wood like a bird’s talons clinging to a branch. She cautiously lowers herself to the deck and points at me. “She woke all the dragons when she killed Zhun, the fire dragon.”
I am so stunned by Nayadi’s words that I stumble away from her. No one was supposed to know I, not Golmarr, killed the fire dragon. Enzio and Golmarr’s brothers look at me, all three of their faces shocked. Ornald simply nods, as if he’s known all along.
“What is Nayadi talking about, brother?” Yerengul asks.
“I will tell you at a more secure time.”
Enzio nods, his eyes filled with pride as he studies me. “That is why you were not afraid to fight the two-headed monstrosity. You already know how to slay dragons. For some reason I am not surprised.”
Nayadi lifts her hand, and everyone falls silent. “But the sandworm and the two-headed dragon are not the only ones eager for her death. There is a dragon patiently waiting for her in the mountains of Faodara, and the stone dragon of Satar is making the earth rumble again. He will bring the entire Satar mountain range down if Sorrow doesn’t kill him first.” She cocks her head to the side. “And the sea serpent…he is much closer than any of you realize. Yes. They all want to destroy the girl who killed the fire dragon, for she has his magic, and his knowledge. She is the first threat to their kind.”
Yassim studies me the way she studied Golmarr the first time she saw him: like she is reading everything about me—every strength, weakness, fault, and flaw—by my posture. “You expect me to believe this Faodarian girl killed a dragon? I live half a world away from her, and still we hear stories of how Faodarian women abhor weapons almost as much as they abhor physical intimacy. Even their men do not know how to swing a sword or throw a dagger. They do their killing with poisoned wine, like the cowards they are. So how did she kill a dragon? With her bare hands?” She laughs a cruel, mocking laugh.
I swallow the anger swelling in my throat and raise Golmarr’s sword. My wet hand slips on the handle, and the weapon wavers to the side. “I killed the fire dragon with this sword,” I say, and shrug like it was no big deal, defeating a dragon. “And that was after he burned me with fire, crushed my ribs, and ate my arm.”
Derision fills Yassim’s eyes, and she laughs again. “I do not believe you. There is no weapon in the world that can penetrate a dragon’s scales.”
I shrug again and let my anger sharpen my words. “You can believe whatever you want, Yassim. It doesn’t change the fact that he is dead, and my hand wielded the weapon that took his life.”
Nayadi cackles. I sheathe the sword and force myself not to break eye contact with the Ilaadi princess. She is leaning forward, and a sheen of sweat glistens on the bridge of her nose. Her body language makes me think of a hunting dog being restrained when it can clearly see a rabbit.
“If you want my ship so badly, I will fight you for command of it,” Yassim says.
“Me?” I ask hoarsely.
She nods once.
Golmarr steps between me and the princess, his face tight with worry. “Not worth it,” he says. Lowering his voice, he adds, “Not only are Ilaadi royalty trained assassins, they are their kingdom’s best assassins. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know,” I whisper. “I studied Ilaadi history when I was eleven. I had nightmares for a year after learning about the royal family.” I peer over his shoulder and meet Yassim’s keen gaze. Restrained in Yerengul’s arms, she looks tiny and fragile, with a delicate, fine-boned build. “I can beat her.” Golmarr shakes his head and opens his mouth to say something. Before he can speak, I blurt, “I will fight you, Yassim, but only if no weapons are involved.”
Yassim smiles. “No weapons?” she asks innocently. “Why ever not?”
“Because the Ilaadi poison their weapons, and I do not trust you.”
Yassim shrugs. “Very well.”
Yassim’s eyes dance with delight, but her crew are fervently shaking their heads. She ignores them.
“Princess Yassim, the risk is too great. No one sails to the black isle and returns,” the oldest man on her crew says. “I beg you to reconsider.”
“You might be the captain of this ship, but I am your superior, Captain Yeb,” she says. “I will be the one who decides.” Yassim nods toward me and sneers. “Look at her. She might be wearing men’s clothing, but she looks soft.” A wide smile curls her mouth, and for a moment I am shocked by her youth and her beauty. At a glance, I would not peg her as an adult. At a glance I would not peg her as an assassin, either. But both her true age and her knowledge of killing show in the way she studies people, in the way she stands, in the sharpness of her eyes as they slice through me and find my weaknesses.
“We will fight for command of this ship,” she says. “If you win, my crew will sail wherever you wish to go. If I win, I will kill you and feed your carcass to the fish before throwing your men overboard.”
I push my wet hair away from my neck and smile, trying to appear harmless. “That’s not exactly the deal I was looking for.”
“What would you have me change? Are you afraid to die?”
I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. “Death holds no fear for me
.” I have enough memories of it to know that, despite what everyone thinks, death is a peaceful release, an end to all pain and worry.
“Then what changes do you want?”
“If you win, you feed my carcass to the fish and throw my men overboard. Fine. But if I win, you and your men forfeit every weapon you have before we set sail.”
She shrugs. “Agreed. If you win, we will forfeit our weapons.”
She already thinks she has won, which means she is overconfident. At least I have that in my favor. “So you accept?”
She nods, one curt bob of her head.
“Then let’s get started. The sooner we set sail, the better. Yerengul, pat her down.”
Still holding the knife to the princess’s neck, Yerengul runs his free hand down one of her arms and then the other, patting the loose white fabric of her clothing. When he is done, she shoves him away and removes her turban, revealing deep red hair a shade lighter than her eyebrows, braided into a bun at the back of her head. Gripping the hem of her knee-length blouse, she pulls it up over her head and tosses it aside. Beneath it, she is wearing a formfitting dark blue tunic that has no sleeves, and baggy pale blue pants. A plain gold necklace circles her throat, gleaming against her deeply tanned skin. Affixed to both her wrists are very slim blades in black leather holsters. One is curved and made for slicing; the other is straight and made for stabbing or throwing. She takes them off and carefully holds them out to Yerengul. “They are poisoned,” she warns.
Yerengul warily takes the knives and quickly steps away. “She’s fast,” he warns me, wiping the drying blood from his nose. There is respect in his voice.
“I’m sure she is.” I unclasp my dripping cloak, letting it slap wetly to the deck at my feet.
Yerengul tucks Yassim’s knives into his belt and motions to Jessen. “Hold her hands while I finish checking for concealed weapons.” Jessen nods and clasps the princess’s wrists, and Yerengul kneels at her feet. She stands still while Yerengul pats her legs through her loose pants, from her hips to her ankles, even lifting both of her bare feet to look beneath them. When he is done, he stands and shakes his head. “No weapons.”
She jerks away from Jessen and studies me.
I sit down and begin working the soaked knot on my left boot, hoping the mundane task will help quiet my nerves. Both boots are soaked and too heavy to wear in a fight. My fingers are growing stiff with cold, and I realize I should be freezing, but I am not. There is too much adrenaline coursing through me for my body to be cold.
“I am pleased you picked hand-to-hand combat,” she says, holding out her two small, slender hands.
I nod and tug off my boot. Of course she is pleased, I think. Taking a life with bare hands is the Ilaadis’ ultimate assassination feat. I untie my other boot and yank it off, sloshing water onto the deck. Next, I roll my woolen socks down my calves and off my feet and toss them to the base of the railing. Wind plasters my wet tunic to my body, and I start shivering.
Golmarr crouches beside me, his back to Yassim. “I don’t think you should do this,” he whispers, his eyes blazing with anger. “I think we should try and defeat the entire crew instead.”
“Why? There are eight of them and only six of us, since I highly doubt Nayadi can fight. Have you seen the outcome?”
He shakes his head and his brows pull tight together. “I saw Yassim blow a dart at you a split second before it happened—hence the leap into the sea—but beyond that, I have seen nothing about her or her crew, aside from the sails of their ship rippling in the wind.” He puts his hand on my sleeve, and hatred sharpens his eyes. “I do not want to watch her hurt you, Sorrowlynn.”
I press on the crease between his brows and give him my best smile, which is trembling and weak. “I will die by my own hand, remember? And you have seen me fight. Your brothers taught me well. I am skilled, Golmarr. I am strong.” I shiver. “I’m also starting to feel the cold. A good fight will warm me up.”
“But what if—”
I press my frigid fingers against his warm lips and realize my hand is shaking. He must feel it, because he closes his eyes and covers my fingers with his, stilling them. “Golmarr, my mind contains the knowledge of hundreds of warriors. You need to have faith in me.” Even though the words I have spoken are strong and confident, doubt makes it hard to gain my feet. I am the one who needs to exercise a little faith.
With my people on my right, and the Ilaadi sailors on my left, Yassim and I face each other on the most open part of the deck. Her bare arms are thin, several shades paler than her face and hands, and lined with lean muscle. She doesn’t wait for a formal beginning to our fight. Her feet barely touch the deck as she sprints forward. When she is two steps from me, she leaps, spins through the air, her foot aimed to hit my stomach.
I step to the side as her foot makes contact and grab her ankle, jerking and twisting it, and knocking her off balance. Tightening my hold, I shift my weight and slam my bare foot into the side of her head. She uses the force of my attack to her advantage and yanks her ankle from my grasp before my foot does any real damage. Her heel thumps hard against my chest, making me stumble back a step, and then she darts away.
She moves like water—swift and fluid and deceptively strong—and is faster than anyone I have ever fought or sparred with. I almost can’t follow her with my eyes as she spins her body into mine again, slamming her elbow into my ribs one, two, three times in a row before I have time to react. With the wind knocked out of me, I thrust my foot into the back of her knee and slam her down onto the boat deck, landing solidly atop her. Yassim’s legs wrap around my leg, and she flips me to the side and twists away before I can grab her. I climb to my feet and stand hunched over my throbbing ribs as my brain starts filtering through all offensive fighting skills I know.
“She is going to turn you into pulp if you don’t get your hands up and start blocking her,” Yerengul calls.
Golmarr glares. “That says a lot about the person who taught her to fight!”
Yerengul shoves Golmarr. “It was just an observation.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say as I watch the desert princess. We both move at the same moment and collide in the deck’s center. I swing my hand and she blocks, catching my blow with her forearm. I swing my other hand and she blocks, falling back a step. I repeat this action, and my hands blur as they fly through the air, repeatedly hitting. Yassim blocks every blow until she has been forced to the side of the ship and can either change her direction or go into the ocean. The next time I swing, she grabs my wrist and bends it backward, then rams her knee into my stomach. I stumble back, giving her enough room to spin. She lifts her leg midspin and kicks the side of my head before I have time to duck. Gasping for breath, Yassim hurries to the other side of the boat and watches me like a snake studying a mouse.
I run forward and, utilizing the length of my legs, spin and kick. Her gold necklace is my target. Before my foot hits her, Yassim ducks and grabs it. She twists my ankle and shoves me backward at the same time. I wrench my body in a half circle and fall forward, catching myself with my hands against the damp deck. Lifting my free foot, I plunge it into her stomach so hard my arms struggle to support me. Yassim flies backward, crashing into the boat’s railing before landing on her bottom.
She is up and on her feet and running at me before I have a chance to stand. Her arms and legs move so fast, they become a Yassim-colored haze. I jump to my feet, ready to block an attack, but Yassim doesn’t stop running when she reaches me. Her small feet sprint up the length of my body, and her elbow, as hard and swift as any weapon I’ve known, cracks against my cheek, snapping my head to the side.
Her small feet push off my thighs, and she flips backward through the air, landing on her feet like a cat. A satisfied smile splits her mouth. “First blood goes to me,” she says, smoothing the front of her tunic. She is panting hard. The dark re
d hair that has come loose from the braid bun hangs in sweaty wisps around her face.
I dab at my cheek and my fingers come away crimson.
Golmarr and my father rush to my side. “She is a good fighter,” Golmarr says, and his eyes hold more than a trace of concern.
“Here. For her cheek.” My father holds a silk handkerchief out to Golmarr. The Faodarian griffin is sewn onto a corner of the white silk, right beside a letter F. My mother’s name is Felicitia, and I wonder if this is her handkerchief.
Golmarr takes it and dabs the fabric on my cheek, using the opportunity to lean in close. “I don’t know how much longer I can endure this, Sorrowlynn,” he whispers. “Every hit she lands on you is more painful than if I were feeling it myself.”
“I’m fine. I can barely even feel it,” I say. Golmarr frowns and gently dabs my cheek again.
“You might be from Faodara, but you are built more like the Satari,” my father says. “Do you know why the Ilaadi have become the best assassins in the world?”
I think about it for a moment and then shake my head. “No. Why?”
My father grins. “Because Princess Yassim’s ancient neighbors, the Satari, were bigger and stronger than her ancestors. Yassim’s people had to learn to fight stronger opponents, so they opted for secretly assassinating us instead of fighting face to face. That was the only way they could beat us. Use your strength, Sorrowlynn!”
Golmarr nods. “Fight like you are a man from the ancient Trevonan army. Do you know how they fought?”
I see it and feel it, the way the ancient Trevonans fought—with no finesse, no visible skill, only brute strength. “They had competitions to see who could uproot trees,” Golmarr says, “and then competitions to see who could throw the uprooted trees the farthest. They threw one another around and fought with their fists. You are bigger than her, and—no offense—slower. It doesn’t mean you are weaker or less skilled. But your father is right. You are built more like a Satari woman than a Faodarian woman. Satari women are strong.” He wraps his hands around my biceps and gives me a little shake. “I feel your strength, Sorrowlynn. You are powerful.” A small smile graces his face. “You also know a lot more than she does. She has been trained to expect speed and finesse. She has been trained to fight other assassins, or kill an enemy before he knows his life is even in danger. She lurks in the shadows with a poisoned knife. She doesn’t train to fight duels for ships. She doesn’t train to win with strength and endurance.” He cups the back of my head in his hand and leans his forehead against mine. “Please be careful.”
The Dragon's Curse (A Transference Novel) Page 19
