“You know I’ll figure it out eventually,” Ashlyn added when he stayed silent.
“Maybe. Or maybe some things are truly unknowable, witch queen.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Make me.”
Ashlyn scoffed. “Very well.”
She crossed the cabin and grabbed him by throat and jaw. Then slowly pushed him down onto his knees.
* * *
After Ashlyn had fallen asleep, Bershad slipped out of the tiny cot in their cabin and climbed above deck. Took a few moments to breathe in the salty night air. He nodded at the only sailor on duty, who had tucked himself as deep as possible into the little pilot’s nook, and was clutching his crossbow as if it was a long-lost lover.
Bershad considered reminding him that shooting that crossbow at the Nomad was about as useful as attacking a fully armored warden with a toothpick, but resisted. These days, comfort was hard to find, even if it was a false one.
He dug through the equipment on deck until he found a deep-sea fishing line and a large silver hook. Cut the line with a knife, baited the hook with the freshest herring he could find—which wasn’t very fresh at all—and headed for the stern.
Bershad cast the line into the sea, letting the ship’s wake do most of the work for him. Their escape from Floodhaven had been filled with long periods of downtime—waiting in a hidden cove or behind a rocky island for ships to pass—but he hadn’t spent any of it truly alone. He was either with Ashlyn in their cabin, killing dragons, or on the deck listening to Felgor prattle on while everyone watched the Nomad from the corner of their eyes.
He took some time to savor the solitude. The events of the last year swam through his mind. Crossing the Razorback Mountains. Losing Rowan and Alfonso in Taggarstan. Killing the emperor of Balaria. The horrific torture he’d endured under the hands and hatchets of that crazy bastard, Osyrus Ward.
Getting back to Floodhaven. Seeing the things Ashlyn had done to survive.
A low blanket of fog covered the stars and prevented Bershad from seeing the Nomad. But he knew she was there. He could feel her.
An hour or so later, the fishing line jerked hard in Bershad’s fingers.
He wrapped the line around his forearm with a quick loop, straining to stop himself from being pulled into the sea. Then he started hauling whatever he’d caught toward the boat. The line dug deep into his flesh with each yank, but the pain felt good in a way. Focused him on the task at hand. When you were battling a huge fish that could pull you into the water at any moment, there wasn’t much room to worry about cursed blood, clingy dragons, lost kingdoms, or magical threads. Bershad liked that.
After ten minutes of fighting the fish, Bershad hauled up a red-finned tuna the size of a pony. The fish’s panicked pulse thrummed against his fingertips with a manic sensitivity. He drew the knife from his belt and killed it with a quick stab to the brain.
The smell of fish and blood filled his nostrils—the scents far sharper than they should have been. A feral urge compelled Bershad to crouch over the fish, cut a swath of raw, bleeding meat from its flank, and take a juicy bite that was full of briny tang.
Bershad ate his fill, propelled by instinct and hunger. When he was done, he wiped some of the blood from his mouth. Looked down at the massive fish. There was plenty of meat left for the crew, and more than enough to unlock Felgor’s clogged bowels. But the dragon hadn’t eaten anything since the Red Skull, which was weeks ago. Bershad didn’t know why she was following him, but he knew that he was responsible. He looked over his shoulder. The lone sailor was still huddled in his cabin and hadn’t noticed the tuna.
Bershad yanked the hook free and slid the fish back into the water.
Nothing happened for a while. The tuna stayed afloat, scales shimmering as it lolled in the ship’s wake. Just as Bershad was starting to think he’d wasted a perfectly good fish, a smoky flash careened through the fog line and snatched the tuna from the water. Ascended back into the fog a moment later.
Bershad felt the Nomad swallow the head in one bite, then the rest. The same briny flesh that sat in his stomach sat in hers, too. He nodded, then headed back up the ship.
“Heard a ruckus,” the sailor said. “You hook anything?”
“Yeah. But it got away.”
Belowdecks, Bershad dug up a jar of Crimson Tower moss and wiped it across the cuts in his palm and forearm from the fishing line, then wrapped it all with clean bandages. The wounds would be gone by morning. Then he crawled back underneath the scratchy sheets. Pressed up against the warmth of Ashlyn’s body. Tried to focus on her smell and her heartbeat. But he could still feel the dragon above.
Bershad went to sleep thinking that maybe they’d finally seen the last of Linkon Pommol’s ships, and with the Great Migration complete, they could enjoy clear skies and peaceful days the rest of the way to Papyria.
He was wrong on both counts.
2
JOLAN
Almira, Dainwood Province
Jolan saw the vultures an hour after dawn.
He’d been foraging in the southern warrens of the Dainwood for two moon turns. Almost all of the dragons of Almira had flown across the Soul Sea for the Great Migration, so he’d taken full advantage of the clear skies and forest to explore every cramped ravine and secret cave. His backpack was bulging with valuable and rare ingredients—six vials of Kelarium mudfish scales, seven jars of Iondril root tendrils, three Daintree fox livers, two pounds of glowing solarium caps, five pounds each of Spartania and Crimson Tower moss. All of that alone was enough to start his own apothecary, if he hadn’t been expelled from the Alchemist Order. But it paled in comparison to his true haul.
Two pounds of Gods Moss, harvested from the roots of a gnarled tree deep inside an ancient warren. He’d tried to find other trees like it to harvest more, but in all his spelunking and exploration, this was the only one he’d encountered.
The Gods Moss was worth thousands of gold coins. If Jolan wanted, he could ride to Floodhaven, sell it off to a merchant magnate, and then live for the rest of his life off the profits. But Jolan wasn’t interested in a lazy life of luxury and riches. He planned to rent a cottage somewhere near Glenlock and start running careful experiments on the Gods Moss until he discovered the secret of what he’d seen that morning in Otter Rock last spring. The secret of the Flawless Bershad.
But first, he had to trek out of the wilderness.
It had been two rough moon turns filled with hard work, and Jolan was looking forward to returning to civilization. He was walking along a shallow stream—daydreaming about spending a small portion of his earnings on a long bath, several big mugs of rain ale, and a feather bed—when the vultures caught his eye.
There were at least a score of them, all circling a clearing in the forest about half a league to the north. Part of Jolan wanted to press on—vultures weren’t a sign of peaceful events—but after watching them for a while, he decided to check it out. If there was a wounded animal, he might be able to use the poor thing as his first Gods Moss test subject. The Alchemist Order always stressed that experiments should begin with small insects and move upward in size from there, but he was willing to jump ahead if an injured rabbit or deer crossed his path.
Jolan reached the edge of the clearing, stifled a gasp, then dropped to the ground and ducked underneath some ferns.
There were three wardens. All wearing masks and full armor, and carrying weapons. The biggest of the men was sitting on a tree stump, leaning against a greatsword that was nearly as tall as Jolan. The others were crowded around him. But the living men weren’t the most alarming aspect of the scene.
It was the ten dead ones at their feet.
Jolan took a moment to let his heart rate slow down. When it refused, he began to slowly crawl backward. If he could just return to that stream unnoticed, he could follow it to Glenlock without a problem.
Something metallic clicked behind him.
“Whaddawe got here?” someone as
ked. He had a thick Dainwood accent. “A hiding turtle?”
Jolan didn’t move. Or speak.
“Whoever you are, you’re gonna have a crossbow bolt through your skull if you don’t speak up soon.”
“I’m just a boy,” Jolan said, raising his hands off the ground a little, doing his best to appear harmless.
There was a silence. Then boots tromping through grass. A shadow fell on Jolan’s face. He looked up to find a fourth warden with a crossbow pointed at his face. Jolan nearly threw up.
“A boy, is it?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, get up, then.”
Jolan did as he was told. On instinct, he turned away from the crossbow, as if that would make the weapon disappear.
“Cross the clearing. Over to the others.”
Jolan started walking, unable to get the image of a crossbow bolt going through his brain out of his mind.
“Look what I found crawling around in the ferns!” the warden called to his comrades. They all looked over. Now that Jolan was closer, he could see that all of them were wearing jaguar masks.
That made them wardens of the Dainwood.
“Another turtle?” asked the tallest of the wardens. His jaguar mask was painted blood red except for a black line down the middle. He stood up from the stump, but leaned on his sword as if it was a crutch.
“Nah, just some kid.”
“Huh. Come closer.”
When Jolan was within five paces of the wardens, the big man put up a hand.
“That’s far enough.” He glared at Jolan. “Who are you?”
“I … um.” Jolan’s palms were coated in sweat. His mouth was dry. “Um.”
“Um is not a name, boy. Spit it out.”
“Jo-Jolan,” he managed.
The man pointed a meaty finger at Jolan’s backpack. “What’re you carrying, Jolan?”
“Supplies.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Healing ingredients, mostly.”
The warden who’d found him stepped forward. His jaguar mask was blue and white, but he pulled it off, revealing a narrow face with a huge chin. “Healing. Like cock rot and such? ’Cause I got a nasty situation brewing down south.”
He jerked his belt a few times, which made the two war hatchets he carried rattle.
“Well,” Jolan said, thinking, “my Cedar Finger and Spartania moss should take care of it if I mix it with—”
“Forget your cock rot for a second, Willem,” the red-masked man interrupted. Then he raised his arm and shifted his body so that Jolan could see a broken arrow protruding from a seam in his armor along the rib cage. “Can you remove this bastard without sending me down the river?”
When he’d been an apprentice, Jolan had only seen Master Morgan do one arrow extraction. A hunting accident. And the truth was he hadn’t been able to see the procedure very well with all the blood and thrashing limbs that were involved. But judging from the wardens’ stern faces and closely clutched weapons, refusing wasn’t an available option.
“I can try.”
While Jolan disinfected his pincer-tongs in boiling river water, he wondered to himself how many injured killers he was going to run into in the middle of the woods during his life. At this rate, the number was going to be significant.
The red-masked warden—whose name he learned was Cumberland—had removed his armor and shirt while Jolan got everything ready. The man was in his forties, with wild, black hair full of tangles and silver rings. Cumberland reminded Jolan of the Flawless Bershad, except this man wasn’t quite as tall as the legendary dragonslayer.
Jolan checked the tongs. “Almost ready,” he said.
Cumberland gave a weary nod, then picked up a stick and moved to put it in his mouth.
“You won’t need that,” Jolan said.
“You ever had an arrow pulled out of you, boy?”
“No, but after I put this in the wound, I could saw off three ribs and cut out your stomach, and you wouldn’t feel a thing.” Jolan produced a glass vial full of blue, viscous liquid.
“Is it safe?” Cumberland asked, frowning.
“Everyone always asks that,” Jolan said. “Fighting in a battle isn’t safe, but you did that anyway.”
“Fair point. But I need an answer all the same.”
The tonic was a new variation of the same numbing agent Jolan had given to Garret before removing the dragontooth in his arm last spring. It was derived from the poison-dart frogs of the Dainwood, but Jolan had reduced it with the liver and heart of a massive, warren-grown koi fish, which would make the numbness last far longer. That was good, because the arrow had broken two of Cumberland’s ribs on the way into his body. This wouldn’t be a quick extraction.
“It’s safe,” Jolan said. “May I begin?”
Cumberland grumbled, but eventually nodded.
An hour later, Jolan had extracted the shaft, the arrowhead, and three splintered arrowhead fragments. Then he’d closed the wound with seven perfect stitches, packed it with Spartania moss, and bandaged the whole thing with silk.
Jolan had considered using some of his Gods Moss, but he was afraid one of the wardens might know what it was—and how much it was worth—in which case they would most definitely steal it. Probably kill him while they were at it.
Jolan didn’t know much about people. But he knew better than to trust valuable commodities with men who made their living ending lives.
Cumberland examined the work. “Not bad. Last arrow I caught took some drunken butcher half the night to pry out. Knee still aches every time it rains, too. Which is every fucking day in the Dainwood.”
“This one will heal fully,” Jolan said, packing up the last of his materials. He swallowed, then said, “That’ll be three gold pieces.”
Cumberland looked up from his ribs. “Is that a fact?”
“That’s just the value of the ingredients that I used,” Jolan said. “My labor is free.”
“Oh, and to what do we owe this generous discount?”
Jolan kept his body straight and refused to break eye contact. “I know who you are. The Daintree Jaguars are fearsome and vicious and they pay little heed to the laws of the wider world. So I will settle for breakeven, but no less. I do not work for free.”
Not anymore, anyway.
Cumberland glanced at his comrades, who’d been drinking and playing dice around a fire while Jolan worked. “You got some balls on you, boy.”
Jolan shrugged. “I need to make a living in this world. Same as you.”
“Hm.” Cumberland considered that. “Well, we seem to be fresh out of spare gold pieces, seeing as there’s a war on and all.”
“War? What war?”
“You been living in a cave all summer, boy?”
“Yes.”
Cumberland cocked his head. “Well, you missed a lot. Cedar Wallace laid siege to Floodhaven like the warmonger that he is. And if the stories are to be believed, Ashlyn responded by incinerating his entire fucking army with some kind of demoncraft, but got herself killed in the process.”
Jolan frowned. “If Ashlyn is dead, who rules Almira?”
“That’s a matter that’s up for debate.” Cumberland kicked one of the dead men with a boot. He was wearing a mask carved in the shape of a turtle. “But this bastard’s liege lord has got the bulk of it.”
“Linkon Pommol?” Jolan said.
“Yup.”
Jolan looked between the men. For the time being, they didn’t seem eager to kill him. And he clearly needed to catch up on current events if he was going to find safe haven in Almira to work on the Gods Moss.
“Why is the Jaguar Army fighting a war against Linkon Pommol?”
“Because Linkon Pommol is an asshole,” said Willem, laughing.
Cumberland laughed, too. But then his face got serious.
“You know who we are. And you know that we’re dangerous. But what else do you know about the jaguars, boy?”
“I know yo
u used to be Bershad’s men. And you never changed masks, even when you served Elden Grealor.”
“Do you know why?”
Jolan shrugged.
“Men of the Dainwood go their own way,” said one of the wardens. He was the only one who hadn’t taken his mask off yet. It was painted green and yellow. His body was wiry and lean—a stark contrast to the other wardens, who were all built like bulls.
“Always,” Willem murmured. His face turned serious. Everyone else nodded.
“After things went bad for Lord Silas in Glenlock Canyon, we didn’t have much choice but to put up with Elden Grealor,” Cumberland continued. “A bunch of good men got the bars for their part in that mess, and Hertzog Malgrave was just itching for an excuse to snuff the last of us jaguars out by way of blue tattoos. So, we behaved. But seeing as the whole of Almira’s lost its fucking mind, we figured it was about time to write our own fate for a stretch.”
“And Linkon Pommol ain’t crossing the Gorgon and sticking his prick in the Dainwood while I’ve got warm blood in my veins,” Willem added. “Bastard’ll cut more Daintrees down than the Grealors did.”
“Who’s in charge, though?” Jolan asked. “I mean, who commands your army?”
“Carlyle Llayawin,” Cumberland said. “He’s a high-warden who served Ashlyn Malgrave up in Floodhaven and somehow survived that mess, along with some of his men. Now he’s the head o’ the Jaguar Army. And now that we’ve dealt with these bastards”—he motioned to the dead turtle wardens—“we’re heading back to Umbrik’s Glade to rendezvous with him.” Cumberland gave Jolan a clap on the shoulder. “And you’re coming with us.”
Jolan hesitated. “Um, I was heading to Glenlock.”
“You were,” Cumberland agreed, as if he’d help Jolan make his travel plans personally. “But Timult was the only warden we had with a passing familiarity with healing arts, and that’s him over there.”
Sorcery of a Queen Page 2
