“You look good, too.” Tarragon looked away, as if realising they weren’t alone, then turned back quickly and planted a kiss on Evanne’s lips.

  Evanne closed her eyes. Is this what happiness feels like? They broke apart as the oracle cleared his throat. The old man’s voice was businesslike but his eyes held a twinkle. “Are we ready?”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’? You can’t leave the ship.” Evanne shook her head. “Never mind. Where’s Uncle Heser?”

  “Other side.” The Oracle pointed.

  As if on cue, Heser ran from behind a makeshift shelter. He looked angry and out of breath. An executioner’s axe was in his hand. “’Ware! Villainy!”

  Evanne’s machete was in her hand in a moment. Tarragon stood in front of her, Requiem’s shining length a brand. Evanne appreciated the sentiment, but it made it hard to see. “Heser? What news?”

  The man swung the axe to point behind him. “Assassins scale the hull.”

  Evanne groaned. “As the living dead did before. We should clear the vines off the ship to make that harder.”

  “Or, fly higher.” Tarragon gave a pointed look to the oracle. “They wouldn’t be able to get a grip if we didn’t hit hills.”

  “Don’t blame me,” the oracle sputtered. “I only work here.”

  Three black-clad figures came from behind the same building Heser had. They wore masks and a bad attitude Evanne respected immediately. They moved with an oiled precision not unlike Tresward, although with less perfection. She made to go at them, but Tarragon put an arm out to bar her path. The not-fairy hissed, “Vide.”

  “You know these assholes?”

  Tarragon called to Heser, “The queen!” The guardsman nodded, turned, and pelted off toward the conning tower. “They are assassins for hire.”

  Evanne felt a touch of fear, but also a thrill. Someone cares enough about us to set hired thugs on our trail. “You know you’ve made it by the quality of your enemies.”

  The Vide came at them, steps sure and quick, no headlong rush evident. Pros, then. “The gate!” the oracle cried. “We must get to the gate!”

  Tarragon ignored him, closing with the Vide. She cut one in half without looking, the man landing in two places, his mace clattering in a spray of blood. The leader tried for her neck, but the gorget of her half armour took the thrust with a shriek. She pirouetted back, Requiem going low to high, and claimed the man’s arm.

  The third paced, eyes locked with Tarragon’s. Evanne drew her scattergun, levelled it, and pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, tearing the stomach from the Vide, a crimson spray showering the deck behind the assassin’s toppling body.

  Tarragon looked at the corpse, then Evanne. “Don’t waste the shells.”

  “You’re welcome,” Evanne gritted.

  “What’s that mean?” Tarragon pulled back.

  “It means, I don’t always need coddling like a newborn⁠—”

  “Help!” the oracle cried.

  They both turned to see the old man wrestling with two assassins. Evanne wondered where they’d come from but the old geezer was perilously close to the railing; perhaps they’d come up this side. He was putting in a good fight for a man over eight hundred years old. Tarragon charged, blade held high and back. One assassin let go her prize, drawing a shortsword. Perhaps aware she’d brought a butterknife to a magic sword fight, she held the blade in crossguard. Tarragon swung, slicing the shortsword in half.

  The assassin stumbled back, collided with the oracle, who also stumbled, tangling with his remaining assailant. That one’s legs fouled in their scabbard, and all three skewed toward the railing.

  And over.

  Tarragon froze, then stared at Evanne. “He can’t leave the ship!”

  “He just did!” Think, dammit. “What do we do?”

  “He is the only one who can open the gate,” Tarragon said.

  “Can’t you do it?” Evanne wiggled her fingers. “You know, ancient know-how. Wizardry. Arcane tricks.”

  “I never passed my exams,” Tarragon wailed.

  “Ah, fuck.” Evanne felt hot and cold as the revelation hit her. “Well, then. It’s time to go.” She put a hand on the railing, ignored Tarragon’s startled yelp, and slipped over the side.

  That was stupid! It’s a long way down!

  Evanne had assumed the handholds on Dancing in the Storm’s side were strong, perhaps conveniently vine-like. When she’d boarded the other side, the encrusting of barnacles had done a passable job of providing nooks for her fingers.

  The first handhold she grabbed lied to her. It said I am strong, then it gave way like the bubble of a dream on waking. She fell, flailing, as bits of detritus came away from the hull like lies on a harlot’s lips. If there was a rope… Nothing like that here. No, wait: there was a handful of Vide climbing toward her. Her hand scrabbled as she dropped, finding very little of anything as the ship’s curve left her swinging at air. Then, Evanne’s flailing hand found a startled woman’s cloak.

  It tore, of course.

  But while tearing, Evanne acted as the bob on a pendulum, swinging back toward the hull. She slammed into it, the woman falling past her. The woman, clearly not keen on death by the sudden stop at the end of the fall, grabbed Evanne’s trailing boot.

  They both spun free of the ship’s side.

  Evanne found the scattergun in hand as if by magic. She pointed it at her assailant, hoping to not hit her foot, and pulled the trigger. The assassin turned into a shower of assassin parts, and Evanne was blasted back into the hull with a bang. She grabbed a crevice. Held, cheek to ship.

  It gave way.

  She dropped another two metres before her flailing hand found a rope. An enterprising assassin had no doubt left it here. She hung, hands burnt from a quick skid down the line, but didn’t let go. She glanced up and saw a masked Vide above her. His blade was against the rope. She shook her head. “Don’t you fucken dare.”

  His eyes crinkled in a smile, and he sliced her free.

  Falling, again. If there was a piece of good news in all this, it was that she was closer to the ground. Impact would likely break bones but not leave her dead. Maybe.

  She pointed the scattergun away from the ship, somehow now falling head first, and pulled the trigger. It cannoned her into the hull again, and by the Three’s grace, another surprised assassin. This man was a hulk, perhaps the reason why he was slower climbing than his companions. She clung, a limpet, breathing into his ear, scattergun against his jaw. It felt awkward but got the point across. “Hi.”

  He grunted. “If you kill me, we both go down.”

  “Do you happen to have a rope about your person?”

  He—carefully, slowly, clearly nobody’s fool—pulled his hand away from the hull. He wore a clever glove with hooks extending from the knuckles. A kind of portable piton. “Afraid not.”

  Evanne glanced down. Where Dancing in the Storm nosed the hillock was perhaps a half klick south of her. At this distance from the hillock, the ground was perhaps three storeys. “Why’d you come here?”

  “Recover the relic. Kill the targets. Usual.” He seemed unfazed. Perhaps he hangs on the side of ancient ships every other week.

  “Relic?”

  “The ship, obviously.” She could hear the eye-roll in his voice. “Our eyes above saw it.”

  Evanne looked up, seeing only the curve of the hull, but imagining the platforms the oracle spoke of. The enemy had these too, then. “Do you have rocks there?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “Excellent.” She kneed him in the ribs, getting an ooph for her troubles. He hunched, right on cue, and she swung her legs about him, feet flat against the hull, and heaved.

  A heartbeat, and then they sailed into the air. They turned as she’d hoped, him going first, with an accompanying scream, cut short as they hit the ground.

  The air went out of Evanne. The scattergun roared. The Vide died in a spray of surplus body parts. Evanne gasped, the air knocked out of her. I think I’ve lost a tooth. She spat blood, tongue cut, lip bleeding, head ringing. Move. Father would have walked this off. She staggered upright. The world swayed, while she stayed a pillar of strength.

  Breathe. Just fucking… breathe, dammit.

  The blackness crept on her. She fought it. Held it down, teeth gritted. It wisely walked back, leaving her be.

  The wind whispered. She straightened, taking stock. A woman ran at her from the cover of some wooden crates, so Evanne pointed the scattergun, pulled the trigger, and ended that nonsense. Red painted the boxes. I’ll wait until that dries to see what’s in there.

  She found the oracle near the crates. His arm was twisted in a manner no arm should be, neck likewise, and his knee was bent the wrong way. Despite that, he seemed in good spirits. “I’ve never been off the ship!”

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Cold.”

  “That’s the wind.” Evanne crouched. “Do you need a hand? Or something?”

  “We must open the gate. It’s over there.” His good hand wavered in the air, pointing in the general direction of a clearing.

  “I repeat, do you need a hand? I can get you there. But it’s going to hurt.”

  “Pain is for mortals.”

  “As you say.” Evanne got her arm under his shoulders and hefted. He came with her, screaming all the way. She dragged him toward the centre of the clearing, grasses whispering at their feet. She glanced up, seeing Vide on their way back down. Above, a glimmer of blue-white as Tarragon began a more sensible descent. “We should hurry.”

  “That’s my line.” The old man shook his broken arm until it clicked back into place, then used both hands to straighten his neck. The grating, graunching sound was one Evanne would never forget. “That’s better.”

  “For who?”

  “Hush, child.” He shook his leg, the knee popping back the right way. “Good as new.”

  “You look like shit. Still, that could just be you doing you.”

  “Hah.” He slipped from her helping arm, staggered a few paces, and threw his arms wide. The bung one trailed lower. “Praecipio tibi aperire.”

  “You what?”

  “I’m not talking to you.” He glanced up, perhaps worried about the approaching Vide, then roared, “PRAECIPIO TIBI APERIRE!”

  For a moment, nothing happened, then the ground jumped. It didn’t so much rumble as rise and smack her feet from under her. She fell, right along with the oracle. The grass ruptured, grass tearing wide, loamy soil spilling wide. A stone ring erupted. It was as tall as two humans. Strange runes were scribed about its circumference. They glimmered a starlight blue. The oracle jumped about, cackling with joy, clearly healing faster than any Vhemin. He turned to Evanne, arm cast behind him toward the ring. “There! The gate awaits.”

  “That’s a gate?” Evanne stood. “How do we turn it on?”

  The oracle snapped his fingers, and the space in the middle of the ring shimmered, flickered, then turned black. Beyond Evanne saw a vast curving arc of blue green, backed by stars. She did a double-take, her perspective shifting, and then looked up. Then back. “Am I looking at… us? At… here?”

  “Yes.” The oracle was all business. “Now get in there. The platform,” he pointed at a pale beige walkway extending from the gate, “is quite safe. Follow it to get to the supplies we need.”

  A woman landed on him. It took Evanne a moment to parse what happened, because one moment the oracle was beneficent, smiling, hand out, then next he was in the dirt, blood everywhere, and a woman crouched in his place, impaling him to the soil with a straight blade, much like an insect to a board.

  Evanne swung her scattergun to bear. The woman’s eyes widened behind her mask. The moment strained almost to tearing, so Evanne pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  They both looked at the scattergun, then the woman leapt at Evanne. She was all swift strikes, both hands around the straight blade’s hilt. Evanne hacked right back, machete carving steel smiles in the air. Blade against blade, the ring of combat echoing around the glen.

  Evanne thought, I’m finally getting the hang of this, then the woman gave a swift counter to her lunge, twirling her blade around the machete. The machete flipped from Evanne’s hand to land upright in the dirt. Her enemy’s eyes widened in delight above the mask.

  “I say.” The oracle stood between the assassin and the gate. Blood covered his cloak, a nasty rent at the neckline showing where the blade had gone in. Evanne wondered if the coot might be part Vhemin, because he had more spring in his step than anyone had a right to. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Ancients’ tricks,” the Vide spat, and mule-kicked the oracle.

  The oracle stumbled back, eyes widening in surprise, and stumbled through the gate.

  Lightning arced from Dancing in the Storm’s hull to the top of the gate. The stone smoked and charred, glowing with heat. The oracle, now on the other side of the gate, switched from surprise to resignation, shoulders slumping, eyes meeting Evanne’s. “Well, that’s torn it. You’d best flee.”

  The gate snapped to black with the crack of a whip, cutting the oracle from view. The portal shuddered, then turned in place like a waterwheel. Runes hidden from view beneath the earth shifted into sight, each glowing a sullen ochre. The gate turned clockwise, then counterclockwise. Over and over it turned, coming to rest with another whip crack.

  The Vide turned to Evanne. “Is this some kind of trick?”

  A creature of horror stepped through the gate. It had the loose approximation of a man, the regular number of arms and legs about its person but it was larger than any Vhemin. It had scaled, blackened skin. Four eyes were set in its face and bat’s wings stretched wide as it stood on Evanne’s side of the gate.

  The Vide didn’t fuck about, taking a swift lunge forward as she stabbed it with her sword. Her blade went in, but no blood came out. The creature grabbed her face with a large, clawed hand, and lifted her struggling body from the ground, then tossed her aside.

  It faced Evanne, head tipped sideways. “What kind of creature are you?”

  Evanne bristled, feeling her shoulders straighten in anger. She snarled, “Cute, coming from a creature with four eyes. Compensating for anything?”

  It chuckled, then crouched, launching into the sky with a flap of leathery wings. The gate shimmered, a crab-like creature scuttling through. It was followed by a horse with the face of a snake, then a woman with two heads. The trickle turned to a stampede.

  Evanne helped herself to her fallen machete then brandished it. Not a single creature paid her any mind, then they were gone. The last was a giant lamprey, by far the least horrific thing to come through. It slithered up the hill and away.

  Tarragon ran to her. She was out of breath, eyes wild with panic, sword in hand. “What are you doing?”

  “I, uh.” Evanne looked at her sword, then the gate. “Hang about. There’s a man in there.”

  True enough, Evanne could make out rude details beyond the black disc. No pleasing ancients’ beige stone, this. The ground there was scorched as if by a great fire, naught left but rocks and ash. Perhaps five hundred metres in, a cloaked man was battling a horde of horrors.

  “These are demons,” Tarragon hissed.

  “Right you are.” Evanne brandished her machete. “We must go to his aid.”

  The man flourished a whip of pure light and fire, laying about with great strokes. Where the whip landed, demons blew apart like dropped melons. One leaped at him from behind and he cast a hand back without looking. Evanne couldn’t see what he did, but the demon struggled a moment, then shattered as if made from glass, shards showering the plain behind him.

  Evanne put away her machete. “You know, I think he’s fine.” She approached the gate, beckoning. “Hey! This way!”

  The man turned, then ran toward her. As he got closer, finer details emerged. He was lean, perhaps as old as Uncle Heser, and sported a close-cut beard. His clothes were dirty and shabby, but he jogged sprightly enough. He stepped through the gate, glanced around, saw Requiem in Tarragon’s hand, looked up at the ship, then said, “Where’s Geneve?”

  “Who?” Evanne looked around, then pointed to the Vide the demon tossed aside. “Is that her?”

  He laughed. “No. You can’t miss her. About her height,” he pointed to Tarragon, “used to carry that sword,” he pointed to Requiem, “and hair red as fire. She was right here. I followed her.” His face went slack with realisation. “Wait. Where am I?”

  “The Kingdom,” Tarragon said.

  “Which kingdom? Hurry, lass.”

  Tarragon bridled. “I’m no lass, I’m⁠—”

  “Now’s not the time for protocol. I’ll apologise later. Which kingdom?”

  “Or’sen.” Evanne stepped forward. “I don’t know how it’s done where you’re from, but⁠—”

  “Shit.” The stranger turned to the gate, then stopped as it winked shut. The wheel creaked, then rolled sideways from its mount, before dropping like a tossed copper baron. When it hit the ground, it landed with a crump, then cracked, a gout of grey mist escaping the seam.

  Evanne pointed at the crack. “What was that?”

  “The magic smoke,” Tarragon said. “It won’t work now.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” the man said. “And fuck. And double fuck!”

  “Hello?” Evanne reached out a hand, remembered the fire whip, and dropped it. “I’m Evanne. This is Tarragon. Are you okay?”

  The stranger slumped, then turned to her. “I apologise. I’ve been stuck in a demon-infested wasteland for sixteen years.” Evanne’s eyes widened, realising who this man must be. “My manners have slipped. My name is Lord Meriwether du Reeves, and I am the last Holomancer.”

  Chapter Five

  When the dragon arrived, Amir was not ready for it. But really, who is?

  He was sitting upright near a clean-burning fire, a pot set atop bubbling with early morning gruel. As much as the savages of this land had no idea what to eat, he didn’t mind the butteriness of this. It was, perhaps, also favourable because Armitage mixed more than a flask of whiskey into the mix.