“Tané!”
The flock tore at Norumo. The Imperial Dragon, who was almost as large as the monster, forced a path through the swarm, let out a mighty roar, and scourged the Nameless One with her claws. Gold sparks flew and, for the first time, gouges appeared in that age-old armor. The Nameless One twisted his head, teeth bared, but the Imperial Dragon was already out of reach.
Onren punched the air. “For Seiiki!” she cried out. Other riders echoed her.
Tané shouted it until her throat was raw.
The Sea General blew through his war conch, summoning the dragons for a second foray. This time, the flock they faced was even larger, a wall of wings. Fire-breathers everywhere were abandoning their clashes with the ships and flying to defend their master. Their ranks closed around the Nameless One, who was moving ever closer to the fleet.
“We can’t get through that.” Onren grasped the saddle. “Norumo, take us to the front.”
He growled low and drew up alongside the elders. Tané tensed as the Sea General turned his face toward them. Onren snapped open a fan and signaled for him to cease the charge.
The Sea General signed with a fan in return. He wanted them to approach from above. Other riders passed the message along.
Upward they flew, toward the moon. When they dived, in perfect unison, Tané narrowed her eyes. The wind tore back her hair. She reached for Ascalon and drew it from the sheath.
This time, she would strike him.
One moment, the fire-breathers rose to meet them. The next, all Tané could see was darkness.
Norumo let out a roar. A blue glow vented between his scales before lightning splintered from his mouth. Every hair on Tané stood on end. As Norumo skewered an amphiptere on his horns, another bolt flashed out of the turmoil. It whipped past Onren, glanced off her armor, and caught Tané across the bare skin of her arm.
She felt her heart stop.
The lightning hit a wyvern, but not before it set her clothes on fire. Onren screamed her name just before Tané was thrust from dragonback, into the chaos of the sky.
The wind smothered her shirt, but not the white-hot flame beneath her skin. For a moment, she felt weightless. She could hear nothing, see nothing.
When she became aware again, the fire-breathers were high above her, the black sea rushing up below. Ascalon was wrenched from her hand. One flash of silver, and it vanished.
She had failed. The sword was gone. Nothing but death awaited them at the end of this day.
Hope was lost, but her body refused to give up the fight. Some long-buried instinct made her heed her training. All students of the Houses of Learning had been taught how to raise their chances of survival if they should ever fall from dragonback. She faced the Abyss and opened her arms, as if to embrace it.
Then a banner of misty green rushed beneath her. She was caught in the coil of a tail.
“I have you, little sister.” Nayimathun lifted Tané on to her back. “Hold on.”
Her fingers splayed over wet scales.
“Nayimathun,” Tané gasped.
Livid red branches had spread from her shoulder, down her right arm, and across her neckline.
“Nayimathun,” she said, panting, “I lost Ascalon.”
“No,” Nayimathun said. “This is not over. It fell to the deck of the Dancing Pearl.”
Tané looked down at the ships. It seemed impossible that the sword had avoided the endless black water.
Another ship fractured into pieces as its black powder combusted. Bleeding, his wing injured, Fyredel threw back his head and let out a long sound that stemmed from deep within. Even Tané knew what it was. A rallying cry.
The herd above their heads was thrown into disarray. As she watched, half of the fire-breathers dropped away from the Nameless One, to Fyredel.
“Now,” Tané shouted. “Now, Nayimathun!”
Her dragon did not hesitate. She flew toward the enemy.
“Aim for his chest.” Tané unsheathed the sword at her side. Rain lashed her face. “We have to break through his scales.”
Nayimathun bared her teeth. She rammed through what remained of the vanguard. The other dragons were calling to her, but she paid them no heed. As fire roared to meet them, she swept over the Nameless One and wrapped herself around his body, so her head was beneath his, out of the reach of his teeth and flame. Tané heard her scales begin to sizzle.
“Go, Tané,” she forced out.
Forgetting her fear, Tané leaped from dragonback and grabbed on to a scale. The heat burned through her gauntlets, but she kept climbing up the Nameless One, stretching up to each plate of his armor, using their razor-sharp edges as handholds, counting down from the top of his throat. When she reached the twentieth scale, she saw the imperfection, the place where it had never fitted smoothly back over the scar beneath. Holding on with one hand, she jammed the blade of her sword beneath the scale, planted her boots on the one below, and pulled on the haft with all her might.
The Nameless One opened his jaws and let out an inferno, but though the fire soaked her in sweat and made it hard to breathe, Tané kept craning. Screaming with the effort, she threw all her weight behind the pull.
The blade of her sword snapped. She dropped ten feet before she flung out a hand and caught herself on another scale.
Her arms were trembling. She was going to slip.
Then, with a war cry that rang in her bones, Nayimathun reared. The haft of the sword caught between two of her teeth. With one jerk of her head, she ripped the scale free.
Steam vented from the flesh of the Nameless One. Tané threw out an arm to stop it scalding her—and fell from his armor.
Her fingers caught in a riverweed mane. She hauled herself back onto Nayimathun. At once, her dragon uncoiled herself, scales burnt dry, and plunged toward the ocean. Tané choked on the stench of hot metal. The Nameless One came after them, jaws gaping to show the spark in his throat. Nayimathun keened as razor teeth closed on her tail.
The sound screamed through Tané. She flicked her knife into her hand, twisted at the waist, and hurled it into the depths of a black eye. His jaws unlocked, but not before flesh and scale tore asunder. Nayimathun tumbled away from him, toward the Abyss, blood spraying from her.
“Nayimathun—” Tané choked on her name. “Nayimathun!”
The rain turned silver.
“Find the sword,” was all her dragon said. Her voice was fading. “This must end here. It must be now.”
The soldier stabbed for Ead with his partizan, almost catching her cheek. His face was clammy, he had pissed himself, and he was shaking so hard his jaw rattled. “Stop fighting, you witless fool,” Ead shouted at him. “Drop your weapon, or you give me no choice.”
He wore a mail coat and a scaled helmet. His eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, but he was in the grip of something beyond reason. When he swung for Ead again, the blow pendulous, she ducked beneath his arm and drew her sword upward, opening him from belly to shoulder.
The man had come from the Draconic Navy. Its soldiers fought as if possessed, and perhaps they were. Possessed by fear of what would happen to their families in Cárscaro if they lost this fight.
The Nameless One circled high above the ships. Ead watched as he thrashed, and a ribbon of pale green fell away from him. The sound of the Draconic tongue echoed across the waves.
“The sword,” Fyredel bellowed. “Find the sword!”
Half the Yscali soldiers scrambled to obey, while others took to the sea. Blood was spreading through the water, along with the wax that had protected the ships.
A wyvern winged overhead and set fire to a trail of debris. Howls rose as soldiers and seafarers were broiled alive.
Ead cupped a bloody hand over the waning jewel. There was a hum inside it. A tiny heartbeat.
Find the sword.
The jewel was calling to itself. Seeking out the stars.
She stepped over another body, toward the prow. The hum faded. When she backtracked to the stern, it grew stronger. The Dancing Pearl was the nearest ship, straight ahead of her, still afloat.
She dived. Her body sliced deep into the water. A flare of light lit her way as more gunpowder ignited.
Daughter of Zāla.
She knew the voice was in her head. It was too clear, too soft, as if the speaker was close enough for her to feel his breath—but under the water, it seemed as if it stemmed from the Abyss itself.
The voice of the Nameless One.
I know your name, Eadaz uq-Nāra. My servants have whispered it in voices filled with dread. They speak of a root of the orange tree, a root that can stretch far into the world and still burn golden as the sun.
I am the handmaiden of Cleolind, serpent. Somehow she knew how to speak to him. This night I will complete her work.
Without me, you will have nothing to unite you. You will fall to wars of wealth and religion. You will make enemies of each other. As you always have. And you will end yourselves.