The Dragon's Path

moss. The moon was no more than a scattering of pale dapples in the darkness under the leaves.
    “We could go back to Porte Oliva,” Yardem said. “Raise a hundred men. Maybe a ship.”
    “That’s possible.”
    In the brush, a small animal skittered, fleeing before them as if they were a fire.
    “The one farthest from shore was riding lower than the others,” Marcus said.
    “Was.”
    “We come in with a ship, they’ll see us. It’ll be empty water by the time we’re there.”
    Yardem was quiet apart from a small grunt when his head bumped against a low branch. Marcus kept his eyes on the darkness,not really seeing. His legs shifted and moved easily. His mind gnawed at the puzzle.
    “If they see us coming on land,” he said, “they haul out boats and wave to us from the sea. We trap them on land in a fair fight with the men we have now, they have numbers and territory on us. We wait to get more sword-and-bows, and they may have moved on.”
    “Difficult, sir.”
    “Ideas?”
    “Hire on for an honest war.”
    Marcus chuckled.
    His soldiers were camped dark, but the sound of their voices and the smells of their food traveled in the darkeness. He had fifty men of several races—otter-pelted Kurtadae, black-chitined Timzinae, Firstblood. Even half a dozen bronze-scaled Jasuru hired on at the last minute when their contract as house guards fell through. It made for more tension in the camp, but the usual racial slurs were absent. They were Kurtadae and Timzinae and Jasuru, not
clickers
and
roaches
and
pennies.
And no one said a bad word about the Firstblood when one of them would decide who dug the latrines.
    And, to the point, the mixture gave Marcus options.
    Ahariel Akkabrian had been one of the first guards when the Porte Oliva branch of the Medean bank had been a high-stakes gamble with all odds against. His pelt was half a shade greyer now, especially around his mouth and back, but the beads woven into it were silver instead of glass. He sat up on his cot as Marcus ducked into the tent. His eyes were bleary with sleep, but his voice was crisp.
    “Captain Wester, sir. Yardem.”
    “Sorry to wake you,” Yardem said.
    “Ahariel,” Marcus said. “How long could you swim in the sea?”
    “Me, you mean, sir? Or someone like me?”
    “Kurtadae.”
    “Long as you’d like.”
    “No boasting. It’s past summer. The water’s cold. How long?”
    Ahariel yawned deeply and shook his head, setting the beads to clicking.
    “The dragons built us for water, Captain. The only people who can swim longer and colder than we can are the Drowned, and they can’t fight for shit.”
    Marcus closed his eyes, seeing the moonlit cove again. The ships at anchor, the shelters, the hide boats. The coals of the fire glowing. He had eleven Kurtadae, Ahariel included. If he sent them into the water, that left a bit over thirty left. Against twice that number. Marcus bit his lip and looked up at his second in command. In the light of the single candle, Yardem looked placid. Marcus cleared his throat.
    “The day you throw me in a ditch and take control of the company?”
    “Not today, sir,” Yardem said.
    “Afraid you’d say that. Only one thing to do then. Ahariel? You’re going to need some knives.”
    Marcus rode to the west, shield slung on his back and sword at his side. The sun rose behind him, pushing his shadow out ahead like a gigantic version of himself. To his left, the sea was bright as beaten gold. The sentry tree was just in sight. The poor bastard on duty would be squinting into the brightness. The danger, of course, being that he wouldn’t look at all. If Marcus managed an actual surprise attack, they were doomed. He had the uncomfortable sense that God’s sense of humor went along lines very much like that.
    “Spread out,” he called back down the line. “Broken file. We want to look bigger than we are.”
    The call came back, voice after voice repeating the call. Timing was going to matter a great deal. The land looked different in the sunlight. The cove wasn’t as distant as it had seemed in the night. Marcus sat high in his saddle.
    “Come on,” he murmured. “See us. Look over here and see us. We’re right
here.
”
    A shiver along a wide branch. The leaves bent back light brighter than gold. A horn blared.
    “That was it,” Yardem rumbled.
    “Was,” Marcus said. He pictured the little shelters, the sailors scuttling for their belongings, for their boats. He counted ten silent