The Dark Defiles (50 page)

She flinched, looked at him. Grabbed Shent by the shoulder and pointed. Sprinted flat out.

Toward him.

“N—” The cry died in his throat. He saw the dragon coil massively, rapidly about.

Saw it grin.

Rain of stones forgotten, ignored and left for later. Perhaps it caught the flicker of motion as Archeth and the Throne Eternal ran, perhaps it just heard him yell. Perhaps, inside that giant spined cranium, rage ebbed just enough to let whatever cold reptile intelligence normally governed there take the helm again and remember what it was about.

Perhaps not. He’d never know.

He knew it was going to turn Archeth and Shent into smoldering chunks of meat, dead before they fell. He took his desperation, the pain flaring across his body, crammed the whole lot into his throat and lungs, hooked back his head and screamed.

“Dragon Bane!”

The dragon’s focus must have slipped. It spat and missed. Venom splattered across masonry a couple of yards left and wide of where Archeth’s feet had just been. Impact splash got Shent, he stumbled and went down yelling. Archeth, almost to where Egar stood by now, spun about. The dragon’s jaws snapped shut with a hollow sound that echoed off the ruin’s walls. It jerked its head and snout backward, for all the world like some suddenly perplexed giant dog. Archeth ducked back to where Shent lay screaming. The dragon leapt forward—an awful, snaking grace to the motion—landed crouched on all fours, looming over Archeth as she tried to drag a flailing Kanan Shent back to his feet. The gigantic head tilted, birdlike, as if trying to get a better look at the two tiny figures it was about to annihilate. Then it drooped low and the jaws gaped open.

Egar crashed in from the side, sliced through the forelimb tendon with a single blow from the staff lance blade. Drenching flurry of reptile blood, and the dragon shrieked. The wounded limb snapped up protectively against its belly. The Dragonbane got in underneath the drooping head. Found the throat.

“You die, motherfucker!”

He hacked upward, left-handed, screaming at the pain from his grip. Sliced through the soft scaling, ripped into the throat, gouged out a long, levering wound. Venom from the tubes and chambers within spilled down, mingled with the dragon’s blood, splattered over him. He reversed the lance fast, before he could feel that shit eat into him, before he could scream. Struck hard upward, with his good right hand now,
no
pain,
no
fucking pain, Dragonbane,
that’s
not pain … 

“You! Die!”

Tore out the rest of the dragon’s throat.

Felt it all come down on him, felt the pain come searing.

Felt how it dropped him to his knees, choked the breath in his chest, drove him backward from himself.

Thought he heard his father’s voice calling, faintly in the roaring dark.

And—tilting downward now—saw through dimming vision how the rubble he knelt on came barreling up at his face.

He never felt it hit.

umor ran in the slum streets of Trelayne like sewage in the gutters, mingled and colorful in its contents, but mostly shit. Heightened by the tension of wartime nerves, imaginings among the citizenry slipped the common bounds of reason. Gleaned facts were twisted out of all recognition by each tongue that passed them on, fiction was drafted in wholesale where truth would not suffice. Simple narrative gained the grandeur of myth in less time than it took the increasingly stormy day to darken down. By nightfall proper, the taverns were replete with legends in the making and their drink-cadging authors. Spellbound audiences hung on every ornate word.

Hear, then, how the outlawed renegade, imperial lackey, and lately cursed dabbler in black magic Ringil—whom none should any longer call Eskiath so as not to sully that long-honored family name—was finally brought low, defeated and slain in battle at sea by a commission of inner-circle mage privateer captains invoking the long-lost powers of the Vanishing Folk. The Marsh Brotherhood, come lately to patriotic terms with the City Elders at the Chancellery, offered up sorceries only their kind had access to, all in service to the League forces. A cabal sworn to protect the Fair City in time of need stepped in, recruited and anointed the necessary men, gave them ships, and sent them out to do magical battle against the renegade and his encroaching imperial forces. And perhaps it was not just Aldrain power that Trelayne summoned in its hour of need, but the flesh-and-blood Vanishing Folk themselves—because dwenda have been seen, good gentlemen and ladies, seen by many in recent weeks, stalking the streets of the city by night, luminous and lithe and grim. Ask anyone, it is well known.

And so, all along the northern coast of Gergis the night of the engagement against the imperials, lightning reached down from a storm out of the west, striking with harsh white fire into the heart of Aldrain stone circles on cliff tops and bluffs, stirring strange shadows from the hallowed turf within. At Melchiar point, out beyond the marsh, a bolt struck directly at the Widow’s Watch Stone and split it open from the top. And as the surf burst there in the bang and flash of light on the rocks below, there were those who claimed they’d seen merroigai, breaching and sounding in the chop of the waves like bathing maidens at play, seaweed draped wetly across their plump and comely naked breasts, tangled in their long, flowing locks of hair and … 

Thank you, kind sir, my thanks indeed. My throat is parched with the telling.

Now—where was I?

But if the black mage renegade was routed, it came at a grievous price. For in the moment that he was struck down—some said by a crossbow blessed in holy fire at Firfirdar’s temple in the Glades and fired across the space between ships by a Hinerion nobleman and great white mage named Klithren—the dark outcast invoked the last of his sorcerous strength and climbed the mainmast rigging, where he clung like some monstrous black bat entangled, and with his dying breath hurled a demonic curse upon his killers. Little enough was thought of it at the time; after all, what villain will not spit and curse when his hour has come around? But some few men among those who witnessed Ringil’s passing were heard to remark that they felt the cold touch of a shadow fall on them with the dying renegade’s words. And that same night, plague crept among the surviving vessels, walked the decks among the resting heroes like a wraith, touched each brave privateer without exception and laid them all low.

Perhaps the infection emanated from the slain corpse of the renegade himself, brought home as trophy with tongue and eyes put out, and fingers struck off at the roots. Or perhaps it came on an evil wind from the south. Whatever the case, now the plague ships sit at anchor out beside the prison hulk fleet, easily seen from the southern wall for those who doubt my word, flying pennants of distress and in bitter exile from the Fair City that birthed their crews. Yes, under grim banners, Trelayne’s heroes of the high sea now lie stricken, and unhallowed magic, though defeated, has left its tragic black stain for all to see … 

The
rain,
m’dear? Sorcerous? Admirable imagination, truly, in one so fair and, uhm, unspoiled, if I may say so, by her dealings with the world. But I think not. The storm is unseasonal in its force, indeed—just listen to it! And damnably inconvenient, I must say, if it’s not eased by the time I must make my way to the poor garret where I lay my head some distance from here, if no closer, kinder shelter may be had, dear lady, by a poor wordsmith and romantic at heart.

But sorcerous? A
sorcerous
rainstorm? Hardly.

A
MID WATERS SO LASHED BY THE DOWNPOUR THAT THEY SEEMED TO BOIL
and steam in the fading evening light, the prison hulks slipped their chains one by one, rode the low swell, and were borne in toward Trelayne on no current Sharkmaster Wyr could ever remember pulling that way across the delta.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ringil told him. “You’ll get where you’re going. Just concentrate on holding up your end once we get there.”

Wyr looked bleakly up at him from where he was crouched at
Sprayborne
’s blunted prow, watching their progress. He was drenched to the skin, but seemed not to care. He held the ax-head pike in his arms almost like a nursing mother with an infant, and he drew a smooth, flat whetstone repeatedly down the long, curved edge of the blade. It made a harsh scraping sound on each stroke that he appeared to find soothing.

“I’m a man of my word,” he said.

The city came glimmering wetly at them through curtains of rain—harbor lights in marching sequence along the sea walls and the wharfs that flanked the river mouth, the dim outline of buildings with lighted windows rising beyond. Somewhere further back in all that, the Chancellery squatted on the closest thing Trelayne owned to a hill, commanding views across the city to both the ocean and marsh. But those overlooking towers and their lights were lost altogether in the murk. Gil had called down the rain in preference to summoning a fog because he reckoned it would clear the streets for him, but he had to admit it shrouded things pretty well into the bargain. There’d be watchmen, of course, up on the harbor walls, but their visibility was going to be way down in this weather, and what they’d be watching for mostly, squinting against the lash of the rain when they could be bothered, was the loom of masts and sails, neither of which the prison hulks had to offer. By the time the low profile of their hulls drew attention, Gil was hoping it’d be too late for anything other than panic.

His own ships, hanging back in the wake of the hulk fleet, could skulk in once the mess was made. Still flying their plague pennants, they’d likely cause almost as much dismay among the populace as the ghostly driven prison hulks that preceded them. And by then, the loosed prisoners would be on the rampage through Trelayne like soldiers given leave to sack.

House Eskiath, your outlaw son is home.

Light flickered low in his field of vision—the mast lantern on a fishing skiff caught out in the storm and struggling for haven.
Sprayborne
was on them before they could react, looming out of the swathes of rain, almost trampling them into the ocean under its bow. Ringil leaned hard over the rail and peered down, saw three pale faces staring back up at him as the hulk shouldered past. One of them looked to be not much older than a boy. Wide-eyed shock and accusation in the rain-whipped features, Gil caught the look and found himself hooked to it. Involuntarily, he swung around to watch as the skiff passed along
Sprayborne
’s waist, then fell away into the murk to stern, taking something with it he could not define. For a couple more moments, he could make out the agitated swing of the lantern light as the skiff rocked on the chop from the prison hulk’s passage. Then the storm came and took the last glimmer of light away in raging wind and rain.

“My lord?”

Let’s hope they steer well clear before one of the other hulks flattens them.

Yeah, and while we’re at it, black mage, let’s hope your merroigai are all too well fed or busy towing to stop, capsize the skiff and drag all of three of them under for a snack.

“My lord!”

A firm hand on his shoulder through the storm. Noyal Rakan, tugging him around. A depth of concern and adoration on the boyish face he could barely stand to look at.

“The men are mustered and ready, my lord.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. Wiped some of the rain off his face. “Yeah. Coming down.”

He’d taken the same approach to picking his landing party as he had the wedge that helped him put Klithren’s men to flight on the sloping streets of Ornley. He asked for volunteers. Now two dozen men awaited him in ranks on
Sprayborne
’s main deck, mostly marines but one or two Throne Eternals sown into the mix. They stood at ease, mailed and stone-faced against the rain, darting occasional looks of cool disdain at the freed pirates who huddled in the corners of the deck, jeering and muttering among themselves. There was a tension in the air that might have led to fighting if the prisoners had been a little less starved, or had had more than one weapon per half dozen men.

But they didn’t.

Ringil came down the companionway behind Rakan, tipped a nod at Klithren where he stood at one front corner of the ranked assembly. Rakan stepped forward.

“My lord Ringil will address you now.” He had to shout against the bluster of the wind. “Salute!”

They did, a bit raggedly. Ringil took the cue, raised his voice.

“Empire men,” he called. “We are at war, and we find ourselves in the heart of the enemy’s domain. I imagine some soldiers might count this a misfortune. Do you?”

“No!”
Ready chorus—he’d heard Rakan stoking them earlier.

“We are here to reclaim those noble prisoners taken from us by sneak attack, and to strike a blow at the northerners’ arrogance that they will not soon forget. Are you ready to do these things?”

“Yes!”

“Now, I anticipate some small resistance to these aims …” He let the grim laughter break and run among them, waited it out. “And I imagine we may have to show the locals some blood before they’ll let us have what we want. Are you ready for
that
?”

“Yes!”
Bellowing now.

“Are you ready for blood?”

“Yes! Ready!”

He nodded. “Then follow me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Cheers.

He threw out a salute, turned them back over to Rakan for weapons check. Went back to the companionway, had one foot set on the bottom rung when Klithren sidled up to him, face closed up against the rain like a fist. Gil beat down a sudden tension in his stomach, made himself relax. Klithren leaned in close.

“Not telling them about the dwenda, then?” he asked in Naomic.

“Not unless there’s cause to, no.”

“And you don’t think there’s cause? Behind the Chancellery stands the cabal, we both know that. And if the dwenda stand behind the cabal as you say they do, they aren’t going to take kindly to you marching in and taking away their bargaining counters.”

“We’ll deal with that as and when it arises.”

“Yeah?” Klithren grinned through the ribbons of rain on his face. “When’s that, black mage? When we’re at the Chancellery gates and they jump us?”

“We’re not going to the Chancellery,” Ringil told him shortly, and turned away to climb the ladder.

S
PRAYBORNE
BURST INTO
T
RELAYNE HARBOR LIKE THE RISEN GHOST OF
some long wrecked warship from the city’s embattled past. Mastless, darkened, she cleared the harbor wall to starboard close enough for a brave man to leap down onto her deck as she passed. But no one did. Ringil heard shouting, saw movement on the wall and torches jerking about as watchmen ran up and down in disbelief, but that was about it. The hulk swept in past the confusion, crossed the rain-thrashed harbor without slowing at all, and trod down the timber boom fastened across the inner river entrance. Creak and splintering crack of the wood giving way under the bow. There were some vessels the boom might have kept out, but
Sprayborne
’s hull was long uncared for, thickly encased in barnacles that gave it a shell like iron. The whole ship rose in the water an instant, then crunched solidly back down and plowed on through.

Wyr’s ragged crew roared.

As they cleared the river mouth, Ringil looked back along the mastless deck and saw the second hulk come careering in behind them, heeling sharply in the harbor space, aimed directly at the western wharf and the merchantmen moored there. There was no time to see the impact—
Sprayborne
was already at the first bend in the river, and he lost any view he’d had behind the slum tenement façades that lined the bank. But he thought he heard the grinding crunch it made, thought he heard a second collective roar of triumph float loose in the night.

Bare-handed, half-starved wretches unchained, celebrating a release they’d only ever expected to see in death.