Oskar Freyman hummed to himself as he prepped for his afternoon meetings. Bah. He hadn’t missed entertaining while he’d been away—not that he wanted to return to the Imperial prison, but incarceration had certain perks. Fools didn’t bother him in the dungeons, or at least not as often. He could drop the Charm and simply simmer on occasion.

Thankfully, he could offload a few interactions on the list today to minor lackeys—they’d popped up like weeds once he’d been released last month, all desperate for his favor. Well, he could shine on them a bit, let them think they were important. At least the sycophants hadn’t all disappeared in the last decade, although a few still liked to remind him that he was the erstwhile Archduke of Laurentum now.

He munched on a powdered croissant and peered at the agenda, wiping away the sudden dusting of sugar on the paper. Ah, Lieutenant Lasgaard. He tapped his finger on the name. That appointment he’d keep. The man showed potential, although he had a penchant for holding back information. Ambitious fellow.

Freyman ambled to his study, examining the walls as he walked. So many empty spaces on the mahogany paneling these days. His shoulders slumped as he exhaled, long and slow. All his paintings, gone forever. It almost made him feel old.

He’d just positioned himself at his desk when Lasgaard marched in and bowed low in greeting. He stood and snapped a salute. “They’ve made it onto the Bridge, your Excellency.”

“Very good, Lasgaard. Thank you for your vigilance.” Freyman frowned, studying his lieutenant’s pristine uniform and rigid posture. Freyman could see his reflection in the man’s boots! That much polishing had to be some form of compensation.

“Orders, Sir?” Lasgaard’s face was void of emotion.

Freyman leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and stabbed a solitary finger in the air to emphasize the gravity of his words. “Prepare your men at once. The hunters cannot be allowed to deliver the Heart of the Tempest Stormorb to Indara. Whether you go to the Bridge or intercept them on their return is up to you, but your orders stand. Leave nothing to chance.”

The lieutenant saluted sharply and marched back out of the room—no doubt already scheming his next moves. Freyman would have to keep an eye on that one. Too much of the pride of the old guard in him, although he was a prodigy with information and tactics. Other than a puzzling aversion for getting his hands dirty, Lasgaard was an ideal underling.

Freyman let out a long, world-wearied sigh and creaked out of his chair. He had a date at the theater tonight—just like every night, lately—and he didn’t intend to miss that opportunity to reintegrate himself in society, even if the Bridge dominated his thoughts. Fighting a war on two fronts was exhausting, but necessary.

He waved over his personal attendant, Sundar. “Have you finished the deliveries?”

“As you instructed, your Excellency. To the letter.” Sundar inclined his head just the proper amount to show deference.

“Good, good. And Naira? Has she given any indication that she will be amenable to our generous offer?”

Perfect teeth flashed in response. “She will roll out the red carpet, your Excellency.”

“You’ve done well! Take this token to the Laurentum Imperial Storehouses. They will open their bounty to you. Choose a reward, but choose wisely,” Freyman said, handing an engraved key to the servant.

Sundar’s eyes widened. “You’ve been fully restored, then?”

“Just so, just so! Good things come to those who wait, as they say. You’ve stuck with me even when the prospects looked grim. Now I offer to you a small recompense. Fill my coffers, fill your pockets—Freyman commands you!”

Sundar bowed again, greed radiating off him like a fever. He rushed off before decorum dictated he should leave, but Freyman just chuckled at the hasty departure. The man had more than earned it for maintaining his loyalty, even while Freyman had rotted in the imperial prison; without his efforts on the outside, fewer would have flocked back to his banner.

Plans were coming together nicely. Pension restored at last, Naira LaCasse as good as in his pocket, the Dell’Atti heir almost removed from the picture—and, if Lasgaard came through, a crushing blow to his rival Indara’s designs for greater advancement.

Now, to check on dinner . . .

=+=

A chittering shriek split Errol’s ears as the little group reached the end of the quay. Up ahead, a shape loomed in the mist, slowly resolving into a recognizable silhouette as they drew nearer. Errol stared up at the massive, mangled corpse of a kraken. Humanoid creatures with too many limbs crawled on its surface, halfway through the butchering process.

“Siyokoy,” Maeda hissed, drawing her harpoon and running forward in a crouch.

A large, scaled form rose up to her left, throwing a weighted net toward her. She met the spinning weave of hemp with an open palm, left arm extended, and spun to the side, letting the weights whip around her wrist like wheels around an axle before launching her harpoon in a counterattack.

The Siyokoy turned to run, but her harpoon caught it in the side and punctured its scaled hide, burying deep just below its gills.

Errol’s dagger was in his hand before he realized he’d drawn it. He sprinted past Maeda to the fallen Siyokoy, whose tentacled limbs still thrashed on the damp deck, and shoved both hands into the brute, unleashing his voltage stream. It convulsed once and grew stiff.

Maeda joined him, running a finger over the clan markings. “Not Siyokoy by these marks. Possibly Adaro. I’ve never paid close attention; either one is bad news.”

“Do you think the rest of them noticed us?”

Maeda pointed toward harvesting grounds in answer to his question. The Adaro—Errol thought he recognized the clan mark, although he’d never been this close to one of their scouts before—had rolled in a huge barrel, and were in the process of draining black oil from the beast, their backs turned toward his little group.

“Wait it out,” Errol ordered. He tore off a strip of cloth from the enemy’s cloak, wrapping it around his hands, and pulled the Adaro backward with him as he retreated. “We’re not equipped to fight against those odds.”

Rhae wandered over, a ghastly pallor on her face. She reached a hand toward the body, but Maeda slapped her away. “Don’t touch the blood, little songbird, unless you want your skin to boil right off your bones.”

The troubadour skipped back a step, clutching her hand close to her chest.

Jarkoda breathed into his hands and unfolded a staff from his pack. “I will not permit this to endure so close to our shores. That much blood and bile could consume half of Laurentum if they light that barrel in the city.”

Errol clamped a hand on the halfdragon’s arm. “Stay on track. Navy patrols will stop their threat. And if not, the Sharks will. This is not our fight, not yet.”

Jarkoda shook himself free. “The Adaro are too dangerous—”

“Exactly, we agree on that point,” Errol snapped. “They’re too dangerous. Besides, our task force has a different mission.”

They glared at each for a moment. Jarkoda’s eyes grew more luminous and a low growl started deep in his chest. His mouth hinged open, revealing double rows of razor-like teeth, and a glow of flame flickered in the back of his throat.

Errol panicked, certain he was staring fiery death in the face. He slammed his hands into Jarkoda’s chest and poured every last volt into him, hoping to subdue the warrior long enough to talk reason into him.

Jarkoda rumbled in laughter. “I am the descendant of a storm dragon. Lighting gives me energy, although you just tickle.”

Taras shoved in between the boys. “Back. Each of you. We wait and watch.”

Errol stepped back, embarrassed at his own lack of strength. He’d always been proud of his voltage stream, since he’d learned it by himself; it may be weaker than the awesome power of a true Eel, but it had protected him against unwitting street thugs more than once. As far as he knew, he was the only Dogfish who had ever manifested the ability. It was the only reason he’d even been promoted to Mako in the first place, although over the years he’d progressed enough to earn the rank fairly.

Still, the venerable cleric had backed him against the halfdragon. He’d remember that.

Jarkoda bowed, the fire in his eyes dimming to embers. “I will obey.”

For two hours, they watched the Adaro gut and render the fearsome monster into useful parts. Weak daylight filtered through the banks of dark clouds above them. Errol found himself urging them onward; he didn’t want to waste daylight on the edge of the Bridge. The longer he watched, the more his mind wandered. To amuse himself, he counted the Adaro and started to assign nicknames and tasks. Chumbreath was almost done filling up his fifth bucket of oil when the group abruptly ceased activities.

Instead of diving into the sea, as Errol expected from the seafolk, the Adaro fanned out in a loose formation. Dragging nets and tools behind them, they headed down the quay.

Straight toward him.

He scanned their numbers. Eight visible. Earlier, he had counted a dozen Adaro. How in the eight heavens had a third of them slipped off without him noticing? The implication hit him a moment later, and he scanned the area. His sensor field picked up four weak pulses in the water behind them. He whirled and drew his dagger. Maeda already sprinted toward the threat, a new dagger in her hand. She hadn’t been able to recover the harpoon yet, still wedged into the bony structure of the first Adaro.

“Jarkoda, defend our flanks!” Errol roared. The halfdragon turned in obedience, his years of training kicking in before he even saw the threat.

On either side of the quay, two large Adaro exploded up from the sea in a spray of foam and fury, flinging nets with heavy iron barbs. They rushed forward, tridents at the ready, stabbing toward him before Errol could even get up his guard.

A dull pain at his knees knocked him over. A three-pronged blade, crackling with energy, split the air just above him. Gruvrik cackled in glee, sloughing Errol off him to join in the fight. He cast a wink at Errol as he ran past him to join Jarkoda.

Unleashed rage tore from the halfdragon’s mouth. He reached out with both hands and crushed an Adaro, massive jaws chomping down on the opponent’s neck. Ripping with bloodied teeth, he tore out a hunk of flesh and flung the carcass into the second warrior.

This Adaro dodged, sidestepping contemptuously, and spun out a second net before the halfdragon could recover. Fronds of seaweed sprouted from the net and ensnared Jarkoda. The deep green flora seemed to quaver in unseen currents in the air, but they held tight against their captive’s thrashing.

Errol staggered to his feet and rushed to defend their flank before they were caught in a pincer Immediately, the attackers on the other side peeled off, diving back into the water to sink beneath the waves. The main group charged then, rushing in with ululating war cries and hurled harpoons.

Taras stepped in front of the other hunters, his eyes blazing with white light, shield lifted. Chanting in a low tone, he projected light from his shield into a barrier, knocking the harpoons to the ground.

Errol dashed back over to Taras, ready to fight at the choke point. Behind him he heard a howl of anger with a note of terror mixed in, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Jarkoda in the net, twisting and biting to no avail.

Maeda and Gruvrik struggled with the massive Adaro who had captured Jarkoda. Shouts tore from his throat, each accompanied by a sweep of his tentacles or a stab of his trident. They were driven back, despite their numbers advantage and the Adaro’s divided attention. With one hand, he restrained his massive catch in the net, and with the other hand and tentacled limbs, he fought off the Hammerhead and shapeshifter.

The main body of the Adaro slammed into the shield of light. Incoherent grunts rose from Taras. He snapped back with the force of the contact, barely able to keep his footing.

Rhae slid into place next to Errol, clutching her flutes. She whimpered at the sight of the enemy crashing into the translucent barrier, but she still raised the instrument to her lips. The piercing notes seemed to stir Taras. The cleric dug in his feet and shoved the horde backward in a surge of power.

Errol darted out from behind the edge of the shieldwall. His dagger flickered twice and he leaped back behind the protection Taras offered. An Adaro soldier gurgled blood, clutching at his chest. Black bile cycled out of his gills and he crashed into the sea.

Rhae grinned at him around her flute. She didn't miss a note.

Another net hurtled toward them, on a collision course with Rhae's back. Errol lunged past her and caught it before it could snag the little musician, but the weight toppled him sideways. He bounced off her leg and tumbled to the concrete, grappling with the net. He rolled into a crouch next to Rashana, panting with exertion.

Rashana had been sitting on the ground the entire fight, unmoving. She glanced down at him, as if realising just now that they were in danger, then unfolded to her feet. After hesitating a brief moment to take in the fight, she blurred into action.

The Adaro who had captured Jarkoda tensed just before impact, but Rashana hit him like a cannonball tearing through a rotting ship hull. He splattered in all directions, his top half liquifying. Without a sound, his body went still. He crashed backward into the water, one leg still standing straight up, shorn from his torso like a Titan had cut him in two with an enormous meat cleaver.

Jarkoda slammed into the concrete, scrabbling for balance. His taloned feet gouged the concrete. The seaweed around the net withered and died, dropping away with a hiss. Shaking with rage, he bit and clawed at the net. This time, it tore like yarn.

Unleashed from his prison, Jarkoda bellowed a wordless warcry and launched into the air on powerful haunches. Stunted black wings unfurled from his back—too stubby for flight, but they still helped him stay aloft in a controlled glide. He soared over the barrier, plowing into the first row of Adaro.

Eyes aflame, he tucked into a tight ball, pulling several Adaro to the ground with him. Flame erupted a moment later, gouting out from a volcanic epicenter. Jagged bolts of lightning stabbed out from the storm of fire. The burst of energy ripped through the remaining Adaro, scorching scales and skin off the Seafolk, a conflagration of agony that flared and then winked out, revealing the charred remains of his enemies.

The few remaining Adaro fell on their knees and begged for mercy, singing gratitude as Errol yelled at them to be gone. Errol put a restraining hand on Jarkoda's arm, but he needn't have bothered. The halfdragon tottered and collapsed to one knee. Exhaustion kicked in. His eyelids fluttered; then he went limp, sliding the rest of the way to the ground in a heap.