The Dark Defiles (49 page)

“I’m always late,” the figure murmured obscurely. “Well, you’re free now, Sharkmaster Wyr. What will you do with your freedom, I wonder?”

Wyr made himself look away from the figure, look instead at the blood and strewn bodies that lay between them. The man with the eye patch had almost pulled himself clear of the carnage. Wyr’s rage was abruptly loose in his head. Red veined bolts of it split his vision apart—he strode to where the injured man lay. Stood over him a moment, trembling, then lashed down with the chain his fist was wrapped in. His aim was off, his arm shaky and weaker than he’d reckoned with. It took a couple of blows across the man’s hunched shoulders before he got it right. Eye Patch made a choked noise and redoubled his efforts to crawl. The rusted chain caught him in the side of the head, wrapped around. Wyr yanked it loose, flailed down again. Blood flew, the man made a thin, hopeless bawling sound, and then, on the fourth or fifth blow, he slumped flat to the deck. Wyr found he could not stop—he went on flailing until the chain links were clotted with gore, and the noise they made on impact was soggy, and the muscles in his arm ached from shoulder to wrist.

In the end, only a fresh fit of coughing stopped him.

He beat the cough out, bracing his free hand on one knee to stay upright. Cleared his throat and spat on the corpse he’d just made. He lifted the chain in his right hand and turned his head sideways to stare at it as it dripped. His face felt hot and wet. His fist opened as if of its own accord and he shook his hand free of the rusted links, watched them pile stickily up on Eye Patch’s shoulder.

He got some breath back, got himself upright. Turned back to the figure at the rail.

“This—all this,” he said hoarsely. “I have you to thank?”

“Yes.”

Sharkmaster Wyr sniffed. Wiped his right hand up over his face and through his hair. It came away streaked with blood.

“And you are not of the Dark Court?”

“Loosely attached, let’s say.”

Wyr put out his bloodied hand. “Then you have my thanks. I am in your debt. Will you give me your name?”

“Ringil Eskiath.” They made the clasp. “But I’m proscribed the use of that name these days. You can call me Ringil.”

Wyr frowned, chasing vague memory. “Hero of Gallows Gap?
That
Eskiath?”

“For what it’s worth.”

“And … you were at the siege as well. They gave you a fucking medal, didn’t they? I thought you were dead, I thought you died fighting imperials in Naral. Or Ennishmin.”

“That’s one story. Just not an accurate one. Tell me, Sharkmaster Wyr. Now you are free, as you once asked of the Salt Lord, how will you go about obtaining your revenge?”

Wyr cast about in the cold morning light. The other hulks sat chop-masted and rotting in the delta waters around him, like some waiting fleet of ghost vessels raised from the ocean floor. The three plague ships rode at anchor on the outer edge with the promise of death fluttering at their masts. Beyond all that, Trelayne rose on the skyline to port. And to starboard … 

“The marsh,” he said.

It was a fair swim, and not without its risks, but he knew in his newly freed bones that he’d do it. He’d take sustenance from Gort’s spilled buckets, knives from among the slaughtered men for any chance meeting with alligator or dragon eel. And once to the mudflat shallows, it was just wade and stomp and flounder through to the marsh itself, one thigh-deep, sucking step after another and no real risk other than weariness and fading will. Beat those treacherous, seeping enemies and there was really nothing worse to fear—the mudflats were home to thick clouds of stinging flies, but he’d endure them, small lizards and mud-weasels and spiders, but he’d kill and eat them raw before they could bite him, and beyond that, well … 

“I am owed debts among the marsh dwellers,” he added. “They will hide me while I gather strength. While I gather men and arms.”

“Hmm. There’s a war on, had you heard?”

“Against the Empire.” Wyr nodded. “The jailers have tattled to me. Hinerion is fallen, imperial forces are in the peninsula. What of it? Should I care?”

“Perhaps you should. You may have a hard time bidding high enough to gather much in the way of men or arms right now. Both will be at a premium.” Ringil Eskiath made him a thin, cold smile. “Who knows? A few more months and perhaps you yourself would have been pardoned back into privateer service.”

Sharkmaster Wyr spat on the blood-streaked deck. “Yeah—just long enough to sail upriver and burn their fucking Glades mansions to the ground.”

Something unreadable flickered on the other man’s face. There and then gone, so fast Wyr thought he might have imagined it. Ringil Eskiath’s voice came across the space between them as gently as a lover’s.

“There is no need to swim ashore, Sharkmaster Wyr. Nor take shelter in the marsh.” A gesture at the deck around their feet. “There are arms here, for the taking. And men with vengeance in their hearts below.”

Wyr blinked. “You’ll free my men, too?”

“Well,” Ringil examined the nails of one hand. “It’s a tiring trick, that one with the door. Why don’t you free them yourself? The jailer had keys, didn’t he?”

It dawned on Wyr then how worn down he was, how very tired. How fogged and short of capacity to think straight. Rage and joy had carried him, brought him up unquestioning out of the cell with chain link in his fist and murder in his heart. But now, abruptly, his footing seemed to fall out from under him. He stood numbly, feeling it all for the first time. He understood then, vaguely, that if he had attempted to swim ashore, he would undoubtedly have died in the water.

“I free my men,” he said flatly. “And then what? We have a pair of ax-head pikes, a handful of knives and short swords between us, and a ship with no masts.”

Ringil nodded out across the water at the other prison hulks. “In fact, Sharkmaster, you have an entire fleet out there with no masts. All crewed by condemned men of similar stripe to your own. Could you honestly wish for a better-suited force with which to bring your retribution down on the Fair City?”

“I could wish,” Wyr enunciated with bitten force, “for some fucking masts, and some sails to rig on them.”

“You will not need them. I’ll provide your vessels with all the motive force they need. I will break their chains the way I broke yours, I will sail them right into the city harbor and past its defenses, I will ram them ashore on the banks of the upper Trel.”

Wyr stared at him.

“You sure you’re not sent here by the Dark Court?”

“Not entirely.” Ringil Eskiath stirred and looked back over his shoulder to where Trelayne rose on the horizon. “But I will hold you to the same terms you offered them. Blood from ocean to the Eastern gate. Can you do that for me, Sharkmaster Wyr?”

A vibrating force seemed to come up through the bloodied planking under Wyr’s feet. He felt it climb his legs and leave new strength there, felt it wrap around his belly and chest like a constricting snake, pour icy clarity into his head. He reached down among the corpses and picked up one of the ax-head pikes.

“Just watch me,” he said grimly.

ater, she’d have time to realize that the ground gave less than a couple of yards under her feet, that more than collapse, it was slide, and that the real subsidence was outside. But whatever the dragon had done out there, whatever crucial bracing beam or member it had found a way to tear loose, it opened a sinkhole that sucked the rubble out of the gateway like water down a millrace at spring thaw.

They all went with it.

Kanan Shent tried to grab her hand, but the drop threw them apart before he could reach. She heard him yell, saw him go over on his back, and then she was fighting not to go down herself in the tumble and grinding slide of masonry all around her. Somehow staggering, windmilling her arms, she stayed upright. Kept her feet, tore free each time a boot started to sink into the funneling carpet of debris. Made it outside into dull gray light and down to the end of what was
actually, Archidi, a fairly shallow slope—

At which point she slammed into a vertical block of stone wedged up at the bottom of the slide. She took the impact low across left hip and thigh, was spun and flung down like some sulky child’s discarded rag doll. She hit the jagged ground hard—white-hot twang of pain up her side as stitches in her wound tore out, and her head took a glancing blow. She lay there on her side, looking groggily at ragged chunks of masonry inches from her nose.

Triumphant shriek somewhere overhead, and the dragon’s shadow fell on her.

E
GAR RODE THE DROP WITH THE SAME INSTINCTIVE HORSE-BREAKER’S
poise he’d ridden out the earth tremor back in Yhelteth that first time. It helped to be drunk, but you could do it sober if you tried. The real problem was being surrounded by seemingly solid walls and floor and ceiling when in reality everything was shaking like a belly dancer’s tits. It confused your senses, fooled your expectations. It threw you out.

He didn’t have that problem here.

The rubble under him slithered and rumbled directly forward and down. He danced to keep up, leaping steps between what he had to hope were more or less solid chunks and blocks of stone in the flow. Two bounds took him out under the gateway and he knew, there and then, he had to weave or he was dead. Because that fucking dragon had to have
planned
this, knew they were in there, knew exactly how to flush them out, and would pick them off now, like berries off a branch, if he didn’t … 

The beast was on his right. He leapt that way, across the flow of the fall, across its muzzle and aim. Heard a shrill scream, a convulsive gagging sound, and something slopped hotly through the air just ahead of him. He caught the acid sting of it in his nose and eyes, heard it hiss and sizzle as it hit the ground. There was just time to glimpse the dragon, crouched on the edge of the sinkhole slope, jaws still gaping wide for the gob of venom it had just coughed at him. Then he tripped and went headlong amidst the rubble. Clipped his head on a chunk of stone, lay still.

It was probably what saved him.

The dragon came slithering and scrabbling downslope from its perch at the edge of the funneling debris, kicking down fresh spills of rubble as it came. One massive rear claw crunched down a scant six feet from his head; he felt the masonry he lay on shift with the impact. Reek of sandalwood and scorching, like a slap in the face. Egar wasn’t sure if the creature thought its spit had already taken him down, or it just had other, more mobile prey to fry. Either way, it wasn’t stopping to eat him. It plunged past, uttered another shriek he knew meant attack.

He lurched upright in the loose rubble, clutching the staff lance for support. Blood ran down the side of his face. He saw Archeth below, sprawled full length in the bottom of the shallow sinkhole, trying dazedly to sit up, right in the dragon’s path. Kanan Shent, scrambling down toward her from the other side, more on his arse than his feet, battle-ax still in hand but he’d get there late,
too fucking late,
had never faced a dragon before anyway and—

No sign of Nash. Assume he’s dead.

Egar did the only thing he could. He raised the staff lance high in his right hand and howled—high and hollow, long drawn out, the ululating Majak berserker call.

“Turn, motherfucker! Face me!”

Fleeting realization—he’d screamed the words in his people’s tongue. The call and the language, rooted as one in the soil of the steppes he’d left behind. The dragon braked its rush, flailed about on the loose surface. No dim-brained blunderer here—a threat to the rear was a threat you’d better turn and face, especially if it makes a noise like that. The Dragonbane dropped the staff lance into both hands, gripped hard at the alloy shaft—
see what this iron demon’s like as a bladesmith, shall we, Eg
—and charged in across the rubble.

He had, he guessed, about a half dozen heartbeats before the dragon sorted itself out, saw what the actual threat was, and decided what to do about it. He cut right, in at the tail and hindquarters. It was shit ground, yielding under his feet, but the beast would have to snap its own spine sideways before it could line up another venom spit and hit him in this close. He leapt the last three yards, staff lance up and out to the side as if to pole vault like the tumblers in Ynval park. He came down hard and uneven, would have staggered, but he buried the leading lance blade in the dragon’s haunch with a yell. Saw the Kiriath steel split and splinter scales like they were coins of cheap gray glass.

Now it was the beast’s turn to scream.

Shrill and deafening—in this close, it was like tiny knives slicing deep in his head. He’d seen men drop arms and shields in the midst of battle, clap hands fast to their ears, trying to shut out that awful shriek. He gritted his teeth and gouged with the lance, felt the blade shift downward as it sliced through the dragon’s flesh. The haunch spasmed and lifted, the beast lashed out with its rear leg, trying to kick loose the source of the pain. It took the Dragonbane up into the air; he hung on with both hands, and the Kiriath edge on his lance blade tore a long line right down the dragon’s thigh and out. It dropped him back to his feet again, set him stumbling backward in surprise. Thick, crimson gore on the blade, dripping—a dark cheer rose in him at the sight.
Now
that’s
a fucking blade, Eg!

Now move!

The dragon screamed again and whipped its tail sideways. Instinct snapped him down in a crouch; he ducked and heard the blow strop through the air overhead. Swung up behind the tail swipe and leapt in close again. For brief seconds, he had the creature blindsided.
The vital truth of combat against dragons,
Gil had once read to him, from some treatise or other he was scribbling at the time—
proximity is your friend. Cuddle up close; it’s the one safe place to be. Safe being a relative term.
All right then, Gil. He hacked with the lance, tore into the dragon’s hindquarters where the tail thickened to join the body. The scales were softer there, he knew, and the Kiriath blade went through them with no more effort than cutting cloth. He tore the steel loose, reversed the lance’s shaft, gouged again with the other blade.

Loud blurting noise, the soft clump of things falling amid the rubble, and a sudden faint mist around him as the dragon shat itself—he coughed and gagged on the reek, locked up his throat and stumbled to get out of the way. Dragon dung was pretty corrosive when fresh; even the accompanying gas wouldn’t do you a lot of good if you inhaled too much of it.
So let’s not do that, Eg.
He tried to sprint up the huge scaled flank toward the head and crest, but the creature was turning too rapidly, spinning in its own tracks, stomping and shrilling and lashing out. A glancing blow from the rear limb on that side knocked him flat. He hit the rubble, bit the inside of his cheek almost through with the impact—blood squirted and ran in his mouth, he spat it out,
no time, no fucking
time
for this, Dragonbane. Get up!

He shoved himself hastily back to his feet, staff lance at guard across his body, saw the head of the beast come snaking around and down, crest flexed and flaring, one gleaming green eye fixed in a reptile glare behind the thicket of protecting spines … 

And there, suddenly, was Alwar Nash—in at the dragon’s planted forelimb, shield raised, sword chopping solidly down. Egar saw the blade bite and slice, saw the dragon jerk its claw upward in shock, saw Nash dodge back in nifty zigzag fashion,
not bad, not bad at all, young man. Might make a dragon-slayer of you yet.
Egar was already straight back in, grabbing the chance while it lasted, while the beast was distracted. He leapt for where the forelimb would hit as it came back down, had the staff lance up and poised to hack at the rear tendon where it cabled thickly from elbow joint to heel. Kiriath steel—the blade was going to slice right through that shit, hamstring the beast at the front end in a single blow—

It didn’t happen that way.

Somehow, the dragon knew he was there. It arched and coiled, backed up at whiplash speed, batted at him with the injured forelimb like a cat at play. It caught him full on—he felt the talons rip through his clothing and the flesh beneath, felt the blow hurl him aside like a chewed bone. He hit hard, dull crunch as more than one rib fractured from the force of it, and he smashed his left hand against ragged stone. His little finger caught and snapped, agony stabbed through his hand and up his arm, he lost his grip on the staff lance. The dragon shrilled above him; he breathed the stink of sandalwood and scorching. Scrabbled desperately to get up. He made it halfway, but there was something wrong with his leg. He squirmed on the uneven ground, the clawed forelimb smashed down. Rubble shattered apart beside him, flying fragments of stonework stung his cheek.

“Egar!”

Archeth’s voice.

He lifted his head muzzily, turned toward the sound, saw her there fifty feet away. Knives out in either hand, apparently looking to fucking
throw
them at this roaring, trampling, coiling storm of scale and rage. Kanan Shent crouched in front of her, shield up—
yeah, like that’s going to do any fucking good
—battle-ax raised. The dragon’s head swung toward them, then swung further as Alwar Nash charged in past them, broadsword swinging, a wordless yell let loose … 

The dragon coughed.

Jaws agape. Almost like it was laughing at them.

The gob of venom spat glistening from its throat, met Nash halfway, splattered him from head to foot. The Throne Eternal screamed, a single high-pitched, wrenched shriek of agony, and then he went down in smoking ruin.

Staff lance—there under the groping fingers of his right hand.

The dragon trod forward, clawed savagely at Nash’s smoldering remains, shrieking in fury. Egar snarled a grin. He’d seen this before, he knew what it meant. Rage instinct—they’d pissed the beast off. It was no longer thinking straight. Should make things a little easier … 

On your feet, Dragonbane.

Archeth and Shent over there—gaping disbelief. They were next, if they didn’t snap out of it and fucking move. But horror held them locked in place.

Get up! Get up, and kill this fucking thing, Eg. It’s what you do.

He gripped with his right hand, dug one end of the staff lance into the ground. Levered himself upright, got to his knees. Laid his left arm over his right and stared at his mangled left paw. The little finger stuck up bluntly from the curve of his hand.
Can’t have that, can we?
He leaned in against the lance shaft, freed his right hand for a moment and snapped the finger back down. Ouch. Something wrong with his vision. Oh yeah—blood running down his face again, it was getting in his eye. He grabbed on to the staff lance again, cuffed the back of his fixed hand clumsily across his brow and then his eye. The blur in his vision wiped clean.

That’s more like it.

Low snarling in his throat now as he tried to rise. He leaned hard, came upright, wavering on his feet. His left hand flared agony where he gripped the shaft of the lance. His left leg dragged. The dragon was a good thirty yards off, still clawing what was left of Nash into the ground. He didn’t think he could stagger that far before it lost interest in the Throne Eternal’s shredded corpse, and looked around for something else to tear apart … 

Stones.

Raining down from the façade of the ruin above them. Stones and strained, discordant yelling.

He blinked muzzily upward. Saw forms and faces at windows and gaps in the stonework. The rest of his men were up there, roaring abuse, hurling down whatever projectiles they could find. Some of them, he knew, were equipped with newly made crossbows from the Warhelm’s armory. He saw the dragon pause in its clawing rage, tilt and turn to meet the sudden stone downpour, raise one forelimb in a peculiarly human shielding gesture.

He saw the moment for what it offered. Grasped it.

“Archeth!”
Bellowing across the gap between them.
“Get out of there!”