“Dom, the sword?” she said, trying not to tremble. Her voice wavered but her hand did not, stretching across open air, her palm raised.

The Spindleblade shone, its etchings filled with the desert sun. Again, Corayne could feel the cold radiating off the ancient blade, as if its heart were frozen and not forged. Dom held it out to her, passing it between their mares.

Her fingers brushed the hilt, the leather soft.

A screaming mouth full of fangs rose up between their horses, spooking them down to the bone. The sea serpent was young, its scales a cloudy white, its eyes red and weeping black. Its jaws snapped inches from Corayne’s fingers, and Sorasa yanked her back out of its reach.

Dom changed his grip, flipping the blade through the air to take it by the hilt, swinging in the same motion. His horse reared and he missed, the Spindleblade chopping through open air instead of serpent flesh.

The mares tossed as the water foamed and rippled, splashing not from their hooves but from the quivering mass of serpents rolling over themselves, coiling and unfurling, white and black and red, gray and green and blue, scales like iridescent crystal or slick oil. The serpents circled, more and more drawn to the commotion, their movements like hunting waves.

There is no sound like screaming horses.

Corayne screamed too, as fangs snapped in her face.

The Companions broke apart, without aim, without a plan, at the mercy of their mares and the monsters beneath the surface. It was all Corayne could do to keep her seat, her arms locked around Sorasa’s waist while the assassin fought to keep the horse alive, let alone standing.

Only Sigil had any luck, roaring the cry of the Countless again. It thrummed in the air, spurring her horse into a charge. She rode with the fury of a hurricane, ax in one hand, sword in the other, leaning back and forth to use both with abandon. Serpent heads flew behind her, their sliced necks spurting black blood to stain the waters.

“Follow me!” she cried, cutting a path into the oasis, serpent corpses floating in her wake.

For someone terrified of the bounty hunter, Charlie was the quickest to follow, his legs drawn completely out of the stirrups, lest a serpent catch him by the ankle. With his red face, he made quite a sight.

“Why did I agree to this?” he howled to no one.

Sorasa’s mare spurred to action, getting her head and her bearings. The horse sprinted in the water, kicking at anything close in her haste to reach the palm trees and the outpost city.

The assassin chanted to her, the Ibalet language soothing the beast, calming her into focus. Water foamed around them, and Corayne swung, the dagger odd in her grip, its edge clumsy. She stabbed for a coil of serpent scale and nearly lost her balance, her stomach dropping.

“Just stay with me, Corayne; I’ll handle the rest,” Sorasa said, urging the mare into the palm trees.

Even flooded, Nezri looked charming, albeit deserted. The oasis was built around what had once been a placid, shining pool, the palm trees shading inviting streets. A domed and spired temple, small but intricately patterned in green paint and white mosaic, glimmered between the trees. Its prayer bell hung silent. There was a market plaza too, its stones flooded, the arches of adjoining bazaar choked with debris. Beautifully woven carpets lay forgotten, ruined in the water. As in Almasad, a causeway rose up and around the original banks of the oasis, standing on elaborate limestone columns, their crowns carved in the likeness of regal animals. It was smaller than the stone paths in the city, and abandoned.

The sun shone too brightly for so strange a day, jarring against the gray water and the tidal wave of sea serpents twisting over the sandy waterbed.

Corayne turned, searching for the others, but searching above all else for the Spindle. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, she cursed. Where it could be, what it looks like. Nothing.

Sorasa maneuvered between the buildings, splashing down a narrow street to leave the serpents behind. Doors hung off their hinges, and windows dangled open, the apartments and shops long abandoned by their owners.

A man leaned out of one, his armor good steel, his sword flashing, his tunic a hideous, hateful green. Only Sorasa’s lightning reflexes kept their heads attached to their bodies, and she yanked the mare’s reins so forcefully the horse toppled, screaming as she went.

They fell, Corayne plunging into the water. She sputtered and fought to stand, her cloak too heavy. Sorasa growled somewhere, and Corayne whirled to find the Gallish soldier on top of the assassin, his longsword pointing at her throat.

Corayne did not know she could move so quickly or with such force until her dagger pulled back, red in her hand, coated to the hilt in fresh blood.

She froze, rattled, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting how to think, as the soldier fell to his knees, clutching his side. He looked at her, gasping for one last breath, spraying blood into the air.

His face was young, unlined. He isn’t much older than me.

I’m sorry, Corayne tried to say, but the words never came.

“Run!”

The assassin hauled them both, crashing through the water, toward the center of the oasis. Corayne couldn’t stop herself from looking back. A serpent, its scales an oily scarlet, swallowed the soldier whole, his eyes still open, staring without seeing.

“Domacridhan!” Sorasa’s voice echoed, a roar, a scream, a desperate plea.

They fought through the flood, up to their waists in gray, their cloaks floating behind them. Sorasa hunted, sword raised, watching the water for any ripple of movement not their own.

“Domacridhan of Iona, I know you can hear me!” she yelled again, begging.

Corayne slammed back against the wall of a stone house, panting hard. The dagger was still in her hand, her grip on it painful. The blood on the blade throbbed, brighter and brighter. Her breath came too quickly, and then not at all, her throat threatening to close as her vision spotted. The world spun.

“Defend the Spindle. Defend the Queen!” someone shouted, his voice met with the confident roar of a dozen voices.

The roof above them bristled with Gallish troops, their spears long and wicked. The sun burned behind their heads, turning the soldiers into silhouettes, figures with no faces and no names. Inhuman. Soldiers of What Waits, not warriors for a mortal queen. Corayne lunged and darted, trying not to lose her balance as their spears rained down. Her dagger dropped from her hand, lost to the waters.

Something splashed behind her, crashing along the flooded street—a serpent or a soldier, she did not know. All she could do was run, Sorasa at her shoulder, fleeing in whatever direction they could.

Until strong arms scooped her around the waist, lifting her up and out of the water as if she were only a doll. Corayne balled her fists, aiming to swing, only to find herself slung belly down over Sigil’s saddle, the Temur woman towering over her.

“Easy, I have you,” the bounty hunter said, using her hips to guide the horse.

The mare ran as best she could, galloping for the causeway steps, climbing up and out of the water. Her hooves clattered on stone, and Corayne’s teeth rattled so hard she though they might fall out. The causeway was meant for foot traffic and not a charging horse, but Sigil kept the mare in hand, taking sharp turns in swift stride.

The geyser of Meer roared up alongside them, spitting gray water like rain. Corayne gaped as they galloped, Sigil holding her steady. In the heart of the geyser, something thrashed.