Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “I’m not that big.”

  “Above average for an Almiran. Makes you a giant in Papyria.”

  Bershad tried a set of molded black leathers that looked a little larger than the other options. The breastplate had heavy buckles along the ribs that he was able to loosen enough so he could breathe. The gauntlets and boots were snug, but workable. There was no skirt to cover his thighs and groin. No pauldrons. No gorget. It was far lighter protection than Bershad was used to, but at least it came close to fitting. And seeing as they were headed out to sea, he didn’t hate the idea of wearing something that wouldn’t turn him into a human anchor.

  For weapons, Okinu had provided the pick of the armory. Three short swords, two perfectly balanced and honed Papyrian blades, and an array of spears. Bershad tried each, but didn’t like their feel. The swords were meant for a much shorter man. And after fourteen years of Almiran ash spears and Rowan’s custom points, the Papyrian lances felt like waterlogged sticks. He put them back and turned his attention to a massive sword that was hung against the stern wall. From tip to pommel, it was almost as tall as he was.

  He took the sword off the wall. In addition to the length, the blade was two hands wide, even at the tip. Not only did its size make most Papyrian swords look like daggers, but it put Almiran greatswords to shame, too.

  “Never seen a blade like this,” he muttered.

  “It’s called a Curdachi,” Ashlyn said, looking up from her work. “Means ‘giant’s iron.’ But I’m pretty sure that’s an antique that came with the boat, not one of Okinu’s gifts. Is that really the one you want to use?”

  “If we’re going into the territory of cannibal pirates and demons, I’ll need something with heft.” He examined the blade, which was made of good steel, but dull and rusted. “And cleaning it up will give me something to do on the way.”

  * * *

  The journey to Ghost Moth Island took them northeast along the foggy and cedar-clad Papyrian islands until they left the Soul Sea and entered the open ocean beyond. Bershad had never seen the Big Empty before, but now he understood how it had earned its name. The massive, swelling waves heaved and churned across an endless expanse that made the familiar waters of the Soul Sea feel like a subdued and sheltered lake in comparison.

  For two days, Bershad and Ashlyn sailed across the open ocean without seeing a single speck of land. Just waves and high clouds and the Nomad, circling overhead. The smell of salty brine dominated everything.

  But on the third day, Felgor emerged from the ship’s hold, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair.

  “By Aeternita, I think I’m still hungover from that brothel,” he said.

  Bershad blinked. “Felgor, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Oh, after you left the Squatting Loon, I had a long, long chat with Kiko. And it was decided that you’re not ready to strike out on your own just yet. I’ll come along and watch your back.” He smiled. “Plus, I heard a rumor that the pirate hideout on that island has a king’s fortune of loot tucked away in their vaults. I wouldn’t be a respectable thief if I didn’t risk a little peek.” Felgor examined the ship’s rigging. “And judging from the state of all this, you two could use a capable captain. This here is all wrong. Damn travesty of seamanship is what it is.”

  “Where were you hiding?” Ashlyn asked. “I’ve been in and out of that hold constantly.”

  “And I should have been able to smell you,” Bershad muttered.

  Felgor smiled. “Secrets of the trade, my friend. Secrets of the trade. You can’t smell everything, Silas.”

  Bershad looked at Ashlyn. She shrugged.

  “He’s your friend, so it’s your choice,” she said. “But it’s too late to turn around, so he comes along or goes overboard.”

  Which was no doubt why Felgor had hidden for so long in the hold. The Balarian gave Bershad a shrug. “What’ll it be, Silas?”

  “You can join us. But I better not hear any complaints if things get rough.”

  “Do I ever complain?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Huh.” He scanned the horizon. “Well, I’m gonna go below and look for something to drink. You never sail sober if you can avoid it—that’s another one of Felgor’s Laws.”

  * * *

  “Oh, the Red Skull stalks in the mountains high while the empress sleeps and softly sighs!” Felgor bellowed. Paused for a drink. “And the red moon rises in the darkened sky while Aeternita watches with her copper eye!”

  “Felgor,” Ashlyn said, not looking up from the map she was scrutinizing. “Please be quiet.”

  “You don’t like the song? It’s a Balarian classic.”

  “I liked it the first five times. But we’re well past the fiftieth performance. It’s distracting.”

  “I know plenty of others, that one is just my favorite. I could sing—”

  “Please. No.” Ashlyn raised her sextant and made a few calculations. “We need to adjust course, anyway. Three degrees north-northeast.”

  Felgor got up from his spot and moved over the wheel. “Aye, aye, Royal Navigator. Three degrees north-northeast. Coming right up.”

  Bershad was the worst sailor among the three of them, so he spent most of his time sharpening the Curdachi. After a few days of careful attention he got the blade gleaming and sharp enough to split a hair.

  On the morning of their tenth day on the ocean, Bershad clambered on deck an hour or so after dawn, carrying a bowl of rice and pickles in one hand and a heavy ermine cloak in the other. Every morning was colder than the one before it.

  “Here,” he said, offering the cloak to Ashlyn, who was sitting near the wheel and poring over more documents that she’d brought with her. Information about the island that Okinu had given her.

  “I don’t need it,” Ashlyn said, breath puffing in the frigid air.

  “Really?”

  To keep warm, Bershad was wearing the thickest wool shirt he could find, plus a heavy oilskin cloak. Felgor was bundled up in so many furs and wool and his own oilskin that he looked like a swaddled baby. But all Ashlyn wore was black riding leathers and heavy boots, plus a dark blue and lightly armored vest from the hold, which she wore overtop a white shirt with long sleeves that obscured her wrist.

  “Only you could get so absorbed in a book you don’t realize how cold it is out here,” he said.

  “It’s not that. I’m just not cold.”

  “I’ll take hers,” Felgor said, shivering under his layers. “’Cause I feel like I got a rod of ice jammed up my ass.”

  “All yours, I guess,” Bershad said, handing it over. Felgor added it to his layers with rushed desperation.

  Bershad watched the water. There was a pod of orcas skimming the surface—dark fins slicing in and out of the surf.

  “Find anything useful in those?” Bershad motioned to her papers.

  “By most accounts from the last decade, the island is a nest for flesh-eating demons that maraud the Soul Sea with impunity, arriving on a strange fog and leaving the same way.”

  “Sounds like more tavern stories,” Bershad said.

  “The details, yes. All this business of demons with scaled skin and dragon jaws attacking ships from a blanket of mist is nonsense. But I also have insurance records from four different outfits that specifically void policies to merchant vessels that go anywhere near the place we’re sailing.”

  “So?”

  “If the stories were just stories, these companies wouldn’t bother with a clause like this.”

  “Dunno,” Felgor said. “In my experience, insurance companies will take pretty much every chance they can get to properly fuck you over.”

  “You have a lot of experience with insurance policies?”

  “Lot of experience compelling rich folk to test the strength of ’em.” He smiled. “I like to check in after a score, see how they fared. It’s often very problematic for them.”

  “Anyway, this is good news,” Ashlyn said.

  “He
ading into an uncharted island, known for demoncraft or piracy or both … how is that good?”

  “Because if there is anything consistent about the world of Terra, it is that technological advances are frequently confused with demoncraft. If there are people on this island—and if they are marauding ships and collecting a reputation as demons—then there’s a good chance they’re using something that Osyrus Ward left behind. Remnants of his research. His machines.” She looked at her wrist. “If we’re lucky, he might have also left behind enough dragon threads to destroy the Balarian skyships.”

  “Pretty sure I used up all my luck killing dragons for fourteen years,” Bershad said.

  He glanced up at the Nomad.

  “Can you feel any others?” Ashlyn asked, following his gaze.

  “No. Just her.” Bershad watched her a while longer. “How much further, do you think?”

  “Another day. Maybe two. Due north.”

  Ashlyn pointed without looking up from her map, and when Bershad followed her finger, his heart sank.

  “Shit.”

  The northern horizon was blanketed by looming, black clouds. Even from leagues away, he could see massive ocean swells and whitecaps. Lightning pulsed in the clouds.

  Ashlyn looked up. Saw it, too.

  “Black skies.”

  “In the literal sense,” Felgor said. “Don’t worry, I am a master sailor, and I will get us through this debacle unscathed.”

  * * *

  Felgor crashed their ship into a shoal a league from the island.

  They were forced to swim to shore with the few possessions they could grab before the boat sank into the churning, wild ocean.

  Ashlyn grabbed an oilskin satchel from deep in the hold. Bershad bundled his sword and armor together with a tight line of rope, tied that whole thing to his ankle, and hoped that he had the strength to tug it along, rather than the other way around.

  Felgor grabbed a pair of boots and a pipe and was first in the water.

  Bershad lost track of them both during the swim. Waves crashing into his face. Tether around his ankle squeezing and threatening to pull him to the bottom of the sea. He was just about ready to give up and drown when his feet found sand. He hauled his armor and sword through the waist-deep water, cursing under his breath the entire time.

  Ashlyn and Felgor were waiting for him on the shore. Both of them still gasping for air.

  “I couldn’t get much,” Ashlyn said, motioning to the satchel. “Most of the Gods Moss is at the bottom of the ocean.”

  Bershad turned to Felgor. “Master sailor, is it?”

  Felgor shrugged. “Not much that can be done about sneaky shoals in unknown waters.”

  The rain had let up sometime between the shipwreck and their arrival on the coast, but the air was still frigid.

  “Need a fire,” Bershad said. He was already starting to shiver from the damp cold.

  Ashlyn produced a tinderbox. Flint and some dried strips of bark. It wasn’t much, but when she combined it with some driftwood, it was enough to get a decent flame going.

  They all huddled around the fire until they had some semblance of warmth. Then Bershad put his armor on and motioned to the edge of the beach, which gave way to a thick, cedar forest. The sky was hazy and gray, but there were still hours of daylight left.

  “Might as well get started.”

  Bershad led Ashlyn and Felgor into the forest. The ground was covered with rain-dampened ferns and soft moss. There were hundreds of spiderwebs stretched across the trees above their heads, all of them dappled with rain. In the middle of each web, a lone spider the size of Bershad’s head stood sentinel. They had long black limbs wreathed in bright yellow stripes.

  The gnarled and twisted trees created a dense maze that was difficult to navigate. Once they’d moved a few leagues inland, there was so much undergrowth that it became impossible to walk in the same direction for more than a minute or two. After getting blocked by three impassable walls of foliage, then wasting an hour walking a river only to find it ended in a waterfall and a sheer granite cliff, Bershad called a halt.

  He sat down on a rock, sucking cold air into his lungs fast enough to make them burn.

  “This isn’t working,” he said to Ashlyn. “We need a better way. Some kind of path.”

  “I’m all for a little finesse, but we’re not likely to come across a road,” Ashlyn said. “This place is a wilderness.”

  Above, the Nomad circled. She was high up—coasting above the rain clouds that still dominated the sky—but her presence brought a few new scents and smells to his nose. He focused on a specific one that was a mixture of musty stink and fresh clover.

  Bershad knew that smell. Bear.

  The beast was a few leagues north of them, and moving farther in that direction with each passing second, but its trail from a few hours earlier wasn’t far from where they were currently resting.

  “Might be we can get help from one of the locals.”

  Bershad found a way up the back of a steep cliff, then led them through an aspen grove. There were half a dozen other game trails in the forest that belonged to mountain goats and deer, but they’d be too erratic for them to follow easily—cutting up sheer cliffs and leaping over hedges full of thorns. So Bershad kept pushing through the tangles of ferns and vines and shrubs until they intersected with the bear’s trail.

  Bershad had never seen bears native to Ghost Moth Island, but judging from the sign, they were far larger than their mainland counterparts. The paw print alone was as wide as his chest, and this one had torn a trail of snapped aspens and crushed foliage straight through the wilderness, into another heavy forest of cedars.

  “We’ll follow these tracks inland.”

  Felgor scratched his head. “You’re the expert and all, but the size of that paw print is concerning. Is it wise to use such a large predator as our guide?”

  “We’ll be fine. He’s far off.”

  * * *

  It started raining again. Just a cold drizzle, but steady. The sky darkened and a brutal wind beat the tops of the cedar trees in wild directions. They pressed on, but the Nomad had veered westward, taking her sharpened senses with her. Bershad lost track of the bear’s location after about an hour of following the trail.

  Eventually, he hacked through a thick wall of ferns and stumbled into a clearing. There was a small lake ahead of them, surface rippling and busy from the falling rain. But that wasn’t what caught Bershad’s attention. It was the three men who were backed up against a stone cliff, pointing weapons at a bear the size of a juvenile Blackjack.

  “Gah!” one of them screamed—a barrel-chested and pale-skinned man clutching a double-headed axe with white knuckles. He swung at the bear, but missed. Sparked his blade against the rocky ground.

  “They don’t look like cannibal pirates,” Ashlyn said.

  “You expected a necklace made from ears or something?” Bershad asked.

  “Whoever they are, they’re fucked,” Felgor said.

  “Yeah.” Bershad looked closer. Two were grown men, and both had a blue bar tattooed on each cheek. Dragonslayers. The third was just a boy. Bershad didn’t have much sympathy for morons who’d gotten themselves ambushed by a bear—even if they were fellow exiles—but he wasn’t in a hurry to watch the kid get mauled.

  He pulled the Curdachi off his back.

  “Wait here.”

  The other adult—a black-haired and wiry man—attacked the bear with his sword, but he might as well have been using a rotten log for all the damage it did. The hide was far too thick. Same problem as a dragon’s scales. You needed momentum to punch through.

  Bershad skirted to the left and worked his way up the gentle-sloping shoulder of the cliff that the men were cornered against. As he moved, the bear made an angry swipe at the pale man, which caught him in the shoulder. He went to the ground howling.

  “Behind me, boy!” the dark-haired pirate shouted, corralling the kid.

  Bershad
scaled the cliff with a few more quick hops and scrambled across the ridge until he was directly above the bear. It was about a fifty-stride drop, which was going to hurt. No choice.

  He stepped to the cliff’s edge. Hefted his sword.

  Jumped.

  There was a rush of wind on his face. A whir in his stomach. Then his blade connected with the bear’s neck, just behind the skull. The head separated and flopped against the ground. Hot blood sprayed across Bershad’s face as his legs slammed into the rocky ground. He felt an unsettling number of bones in his feet crack from the impact.

  The bear’s body slumped over. Its head was a stride away, eyes open. Snout frozen into a snarl.

  Bershad’s sword was halfway buried in the churned earth. He stood, wincing at the pain in his feet, then yanked the blade free. Turned to the men. They were still clutching their weapons and breathing hard. All of them clearly trying to process what had just happened, but failing.

  “Evening. I’m Silas Bershad.”

  None of them said anything.

  “You the assholes that eat people and such?” he asked, bracing for a fight if it came to that.

  They all glanced at each other. Passed some unspoken understanding between them. The big pale man stepped forward and spoke in a Lysterian accent.

  “We don’t eat people, Almiran. But seeing as you saved our hides just now, we’d be more than happy to split some o’ that bear with you.”

  14

  VERA

  Balaria, Burz-al-dun, District Five

  Vera met the three mercenaries that Ward had hired in a vacant basement three blocks away from Clyde Farus’s warehouse. Clyde was planning to transport the dragon oil out of Balaria the following night, which meant it would all be in one location tonight.

  She removed the seal from behind her breastplate when she reached the door to the basement. Slipped it into the lock. There was a series of clicks, then it opened. The men were already inside and warming their hands around a small furnace that was designed to burn dragon oil, but was currently stuffed with dirty rags and the remnants of a broken chair. Shortages, and all.