Dragon Stones (37 page)

"Dunshandrin sent you."

He shrugged.

"How did you find me?"

"Once we realized that you must have slipped away by boat, it wasn't hard to figure out which one you were on.  I've been following you all the way up the river."  He frowned.  "I thought you would get off at the Crosswaters, but you didn't, so I flew ahead to intercept you here.  Get back, all of you!" he shouted suddenly, pointing his sword at something behind her.  She turned and saw that Talbrett's crew had begun to gather around.  Would they risk their own lives to protect her from this man?

"Murderer!" Rennald cried.  With Talbrett dead, Tolaria knew, the others would look to him as their leader.  He stood ahead of the rest, his fists raised, as if bare hands would do any good against the killer's sharp blade.

"My business is with the lady," the assassin said, "but I will cut down any who interfere.  The merchant chose his own death.  Would you now choose yours as well?"

Rennald hesitated; the men behind him exchanged glances, waiting to see what he would do.

"I warn you," the man said.  "Return to unloading your vessel, and you will be allowed to go about your business.  Meddle in this affair, and you will—"

"
Gelt!
"

The killer turned; so did Tolaria.  A woman sprinted toward them, her own blade upraised and gleaming in the sun.

"Well, look who's here," Gelt said.  "Hello again, Diasa.  Are you coming to finish our dance?"

"Diasa," Tolaria whispered, remembering her dream.  Then, with no conscious thought, she jumped back a pace, feeling a breeze as Gelt's sword whipped through the air in front of her.  The tip of it just nicked her belly.

He had tried to disembowel her while her head was turned.

The swordswoman reached them and swung her weapon.  Coming out of his strike at Tolaria, Gelt parried it easily, the two blades clanging against each other, holding for a few seconds as the two of them gazed at each other; then Diasa's eyes shifted just a hair, to look at Tolaria instead.

"You're early," she said.

Laquin invited Pyodor Ponn to accompany him to the top of one of the ruined towers, where the young man perched on the crumbling wall and gazed over his city, looking toward the northeast.  Ponn guessed that the room had once been some sort of library or retreat; remnants of shelves still clung to the curving wall, books and scrolls lay scattered among the rubble and fallen beams.  The floor seemed sturdy enough, but Ponn felt uncomfortable being up so high.

"You see our fortifications," Laquin said, pointing to the ramparts along the ridge.  "We have sufficient strength to man the walls, but that may well be irrelevant.  They are meant to stop invaders on foot or horseback, not those who fly through the air."

"They can't take the city merely by bombarding it," Ponn said.  "They'll have to come in on foot eventually."

"But if they use their sorcery to destroy the ramparts and the men who guard them?  What then?  Is their objective to occupy Astilan, or to destroy it?"

A voice from behind them said:  "I would imagine, sire, that their objective is to capture
you
."  Ponn glanced at the stairs as Lebbeck limped toward them.  "And here you are, presenting them with a fine, inviting target."

Laquin looked at the castellan.  His face was pale and he looked very much like the boy he was.  "My people need me here.  Would you have me flee to the interior?"

"Yes, I would."  Lebbeck turned to Ponn, exasperation written across his face.  "He seems to listen to you.  Tell him he must retreat."

Laquin made an impatient noise and turned away, gazing once more toward the battlements.  "Pyodor Ponn is not my adviser."

Lebbeck frowned and shook his head.  Ponn went to him and murmured:  "The king mentioned a royal seer of some sort.  Could this person help us to locate T'Sian?"

"The seer?  No, I do not think she will be assisting us.  Perhaps my lord king neglected to tell you that this was once her apartment?"

"Yes," Ponn said, "he did neglect to mention that.  That must be why he suggested we come to the tower.  I thought he merely wanted to see the view."

"Perhaps he did.  But perhaps he also hoped to find the seer here, weeping over the remains of her library."

"You needn't whisper," Laquin said, looking at them over his shoulder.  "I can hear you both."

"Ah, youth, with its exceptional ears," Lebbeck said.

"Something is happening," Laquin said.  "Come and look.  Our men are abandoning the ramparts."

"What?  Your fine soldiers would never do such a thing!"

"I tell you, they are doing it as we speak."  He turned back to his view.  "This troubles me greatly.  There are no eagles in sight.  Dunshandrin is up to some new mischief."

"Sire, you must evacuate," Lebbeck said.

Laquin did not turn.  "No."

"Sire, we cannot hold the city!"

"No."

"If you are killed, who will lead us?"

Laquin looked over his shoulder at them, then glanced at Ponn.  "How about him?" he said.

"
What?
" Ponn cried.

Further discourse was interrupted by a rumbling sound that came rolling from the ridge.  Ponn recognized the noise of an earthquake or landslide and hurried to the edge of the tower.  He watched as the central portion of the rampart collapsed, the cliff cracking asunder and falling into the plains below.  A great cloud of dust arose, obscuring the scene; but Ponn thought he saw the churning earth moving, reforming itself, transforming the bluff into a wide, steep ramp.

"What is happening?" Lebbeck cried.  "Someone tell an old man whose eyes are weak!"

"Dunshandrin turns the earth against us," Laquin said.  "They are building themselves a road to bring them up the ridge and over the ramparts."

"What?  Impossible!"  Lebbeck joined them at the edge of the tower, squinting at the dust cloud, his mouth agape.  He seized Laquin's arm.  "You must get out of here," he said.  "Now."  The young king resisted for a moment, but then his resolve seemed to drain out of him and he allowed himself to be pulled away from the wall.

Ponn said:  "Sire?"

"The castellan is right," Laquin said, looking at the floor.  "We cannot hold the city, not when Dunshandrin has witched the very ground beneath us."

"But sire, your people … your city!  Lebbeck, what did you tell me last night about not speaking of hopelessness?"

The old man gave him a sad look.  "There are no common folk here.  Flee while you can, Pyodor Ponn.  Go where you will, with the king's honor and regard."

Lebbeck led Laquin away, down the rubble-strewn steps into the castle.  Ponn watched them go, and then pulled himself up onto the perch that Laquin had abandoned.  The sun, moving into the north, hung behind Dunshandrin's soldiers as they swarmed up the bluff and into the city; any defenders who remained would look into its glare as they attempted to strike with spears or arrows.  Dunshandrin would probably extend his deviltry to the sun, if he could, and force it to face his enemies no matter where they stood.

Ponn realized that the tower had begun to vibrate.  Bits of stonework and masonry shook loose, scratching and clattering as they bounced down to the ground.  He clung to the wall as the shaking increased, but then a chunk of it pulled loose and fell away, forcing him to leap off.  He landed hard on the floor, lost his balance, and fell in a cloud of dust.  He scrambled toward the steps, only to find that the way down was blocked; part of the remaining wall had collapsed and buried the stairway with rubble and debris.  He returned to the wall, wondering if he could climb down.  The stone was certainly rough enough to provide handholds, but the shaking would make it difficult to maintain a grip.  It would be like trying to shimmy down a tree while it whipped in a hurricane.

Through the blowing dust, he saw Dunshandrin's men moving toward the city.  Earthen ramparts raised themselves around the soldiers as they advanced, protecting them from archers or footmen who might strike from the sides.  Ponn had no idea what manner of wizardry could accomplish such a feat; certainly he had never seen the like.  The churning of the ground to create fortifications must be the cause of the tremor.

The enemy column entered the town.  Now the buildings themselves betrayed Astilan; the roiling ground caught them up and took them and made them part of the walls that protected Dunshandrin's men.  Wood, stone, earth, and masonry knit a crazy patchwork barrier, as if some gargantuan farmer were tilling the city into his field, carving a path straight through to the castle.  Any structures in the way were sundered and leveled, shattered like a rowboat struck by the prow of a ship.

Blinking away tears—the dust and smoke had begun to sting his eyes—Ponn watched as the soldiers advanced through the city along their newly-built highway.  They would soon reach the keep, and without encountering a shred of resistance from Laquin's forces.  This could hardly be termed a battle; it wasn't even a rout.  Astilan's defenders might as well have stayed in their homes.

Suddenly, something stirred near the head of the column, as it plowed aside a splintered heap of debris that had once been a building.  Instead of quietly folding into the earth, this wreckage seemed to explode, sending beams and rubble flying in every direction as a massive shape shot into the sky.

Ponn had never seen the dragon in flight before except from below, clutched in one of her talons; she was beautiful, magnificent, and terrifying.  The slanting light danced across her deep indigo scales, through the translucent, volcanic red of the mane that ran from the top of her head down the back of her neck.  Enormous, powerful wings beat the air, carrying her high above the city.  She wheeled around, hovered motionless a moment; he saw her smoky eyes look searchingly over the city, and felt a shiver go through him as her gaze alighted on him.

She would destroy the ranks of Dunshandrin's men.  She would save them all.

As he cried out her name, the tower broke beneath him.

He fell, along with the fragments of the tower, twisting around to face the sky.  T'Sian darted toward him, faster than an arrow in flight.  She plowed through the tumbling debris and snatched him up in her claw, then carried him away, leaving the battlefield spinning below.

She did not turn to face the soldiers.

Instead, she kept going, up and up, carrying him away to the northwest, until Astilan had become a blackened smudge in the distance.

Gelt took a step away from the girl, Tolaria, keeping his blade pressed against Diasa's.  A group of men, sailors from the look of them, gathered around the oracle and the dead man, forming a protective circle.  Without weapons, though, they stood no chance against the swordsman.  If Diasa failed and they refused to yield, they would die.

"Well," Gelt said.  "I didn't expect to see
you
again."

"Surprise," Diasa said.

"I suppose this time I'll have to make sure you're dead."  He stepped back.  His sword slid along hers with a metallic scrape.

"Are you sure you can handle me without your pet wizard?"

"Perhaps I have him here with me."

"Perhaps he's far away in the west, helping Dunshandrin's pups overrun Astilan."

Gelt frowned at her, as if she were repeating unkind rumors.  "One shouldn't go around accusing their betters of such things," he said.  He held up his weapon, turned it sideways; the blade was longer than hers, but marred by nicks and dents and scratches.

They slowly circled each other.  "Do you use that to chop firewood?" Diasa said.  A crowd had begun to gather around them, toughs and rowdies drawn by the promise of swordplay.  None of them seemed inclined to intervene, although the dead merchant's men—who had by now ventured to drag the man's corpse out of the way—continued to stare daggers at his killer.  "Doesn't look like it would be good for anything else."

Gelt snorted.  "And that little knife of yours?  Is it for peeling fruit?  Where's that big axe you used to haul around?"

"I seem to have left it in Flaurent," she said.  "Along with the bodies of my mother and a number of my friends."

"Don't worry, you'll see them again soon."

"Then let's not keep them waiting," she said.

"Yes, let's not."  The big man advanced; Diasa gave some ground, moving to her left.  Gelt lunged experimentally, going for a stabbing wound to the gut.  Diasa knocked the blade aside.  Gelt grinned and struck again, aiming more to the right.  She deflected the thrust again but he turned it into a slash, nearly cutting her across the thigh.  She danced away and kicked him in the stomach, hoping to knock him off balance, but it was like kicking a boulder.  He grabbed her foot and threw her backwards, sending her sprawling on the dock.  She rolled over and was back on her feet before he could press his advantage.

They started circling each other again.  She had his measure now; he was much stronger than she was, but not as fast.  She had to rely on speed to win this fight.  The dock had become jammed with people, the spectators forming the walls on an arena.  Some town guards had joined the crowd, probably intending to get their entertainment from the fight and then arrest the winner, and she was sure she heard someone taking bets on the outcome.