Their boots clumped and sucked down into the mud, slowing their progress. After just a few minutes of walking, everyone’s skin was coated in a film comprised of thousands of tiny yellow spores.
“This is not right,” Goll said, doubling over after they crossed a particularly foul cesspit that was brimming with bright yellow maggots. He coughed and wheezed. “I once ran twenty leagues in a single morning without so much as a droplet of sweat. Now I feel like a thirty-year-old chicken with a pus-filled heart.”
“There’s no way you weren’t sweating at all,” Felgor said. “Everyone sweats after twenty leagues.”
“Lysterians are infamous for their conditioning. My story is true. But this place … it weakens me.”
“We’re not staying any longer than we need to,” Bershad said. “Let’s just keep moving.”
Overhead, the Nomad was circling, but from a great height. Bershad tried to coax her down as he’d done by the lake, but she refused. Rose even higher. As she moved further away, Bershad’s senses turned soft and dull.
“Can’t blame you,” Bershad muttered. “I wouldn’t want to spend time in this shit if I could fly, either.”
They cleared the corrupted swamp around midday. At least, Bershad thought it was midday. With the constant, cloudy haze, it was difficult to tell. The ground turned hard and sharp beneath their feet. They scrambled across a massive slab of gray rock that was covered with jagged fractures that splayed out in erratic directions. The edge of the slab overlooked a valley below. There was a river flowing with rusty red water. Islands of black, broken rock interrupted the current.
And on the largest island, an enormous Ghost Moth was sprawled out on the ground. White hide contrasting with the black rocks like a flash of lightning through a dark sky.
Felgor squinted down at the dragon. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” Bershad said. “It’s dead.”
“You sure? I think it’s sleeping.”
“Look closer, Felgor.”
From where they were standing, all they could see was the dragon’s back, but there were seven iron rods sprouting from its body, almost like support beams. At the top of each rod, there were three blades spinning lazily in the fetid, thick air.
“Huh,” Felgor said. “Kind of reminds me of a windmill. Just … more disgusting.”
“Windmill,” Goll repeated. “Are the demons baking some kind of infernal bread?”
Ashlyn scoffed, then started picking her way down the cliff. “Only one way to find out.”
They worked their way into the valley, then splashed across the shallow river to get a better look at the dragon. Up close, the dirty water smelled like sulfur and left rusty specks on their boots after they’d crossed to the far shore. Bershad wiped a finger along the muck and rubbed it against his thumb. Came back with broken bits of metal and earth.
“It’s from a mine,” Ashlyn said, glancing at him. “Somewhere upstream, there must be a tunnel into the earth that’s—”
She stopped in midsentence. Stunned into silence by the sight of the dragon’s belly.
It was carved out—no organs or bones, except the spine. The dragon’s shape was maintained by a web of copper wires that sprawled along the spine and through the carcass, then wrapped around the thicker support beams that were speared through the hide. The windmills at the top of the beams creaked as they turned.
“There’s something strung up in there,” Bershad said, pointing to the middle of the dragon’s belly, where the wires converged about ten strides off the ground. There was so much machinery that it took a moment for the shape to resolve in his mind. “A person.”
They all moved closer. The person had been dead for a long time—yellowed skin hanging from an exposed cheekbone. His limbs were bare, but his chest was covered in a black leather cuirass.
“Papyrian armor,” Bershad muttered, tapping his own breastplate, which shared the same design.
“It must be one of the soldiers that Okinu sent to collect Ward’s research,” Ashlyn said.
“So, is this how he preserved the dragons?”
“No,” Ashlyn said. “This is something else.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because by the time Okinu sent soldiers, he’d moved on from dragon-bone preservation. He said that he wanted to build creatures without flaws.”
“That looks pretty fucking flawed to me,” Goll said.
“Yeah,” Bershad agreed, continuing to study the soldier.
He was hanging from one arm, which was wrapped in a bundle of slimy yellow wires that connected to the underside of the dragon’s rotten spine. The soldier’s other arm hung limp at his side, and had been stripped of flesh.
“Wait,” Bershad said, taking a closer look at the yellow wires. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Dragon threads,” Ashlyn confirmed. “Ward exposed the spinal column and entwined the threads with all of this machinery. And with the soldier.”
“Why?”
Ashlyn didn’t respond. Just stepped into the yawning opening of the dragon’s belly and started poking around the bottom. Her boots squelched against the dragon’s hide, which was coated with a thick mixture of sprouting mushrooms, rotten paper, and black water.
Along with the thick bundle of threads around the soldier’s arm, there were also a few strands that protruded from holes in his feet and connected to a small metal box with five black stones embedded in the surface.
“I’ve seen these before,” Ashlyn muttered, squatting near the box. “Kasamir had a similar setup—dragon threads wrapped around lodestones.”
“What’s a lodestone?” Goll asked.
“A magnetized mineral with either a positive or negative charge, which can compel a repulsion or attraction depending on the alignment.”
Goll scratched his balls. “I regret asking.”
“They’re incredibly rare in Terra,” Ashlyn continued. “And most of them carry such a weak charge that they’re little more than idle curiosities used in children’s toys. But Osyrus mentioned that the very bedrock of the island was magnetized. He must have mined these stones out, then refined them. These markings…” She squinted. “He’s got them organized into some kind of system.”
She touched one of the black stones with her fingertip.
The soldier’s left arm jolted. Ashlyn jerked backward. Surprised.
Goll raised his axe. “The demon lives.”
“The soldier has been dead for thirty years,” Ashlyn said, regaining her composure. “That was just an electrical impulse.”
The big Lysterian didn’t move.
“Lower the axe, Goll.”
Slowly, Goll obeyed. But he continued staring at the dead soldier with focused concern.
Ashlyn frowned down at the lodestone. Turned to Bershad.
“Put your hand on it.”
Bershad hesitated.
“Don’t worry. If I’m right, nothing will happen.”
Sure enough, when Bershad placed his hand on the lodestone, the soldier’s arm remained still.
“So, it’s my dragon thread that powered the apparatus,” Ashlyn said.
“Thought yours was broken?” Bershad said.
“It’s changed. Bound to my body instead of reactive to it. But the thread does still react to lodestones.”
“Okay. If that’s true, why wasn’t that corpse twitching when we got here? He’s connected to a thread that’s fifty times longer than yours.”
“Because Osyrus Ward never figured out how to unlock the thread’s full potential. Look. Those threads are yellowed and sickly and covered in blisters. He must have used chemicals and acids to make the threads reactive again, but when you do that, they aren’t able to generate much power on their own. That’s what those windmills are for—enhancing the charge.”
She paused. Looked around.
“This wouldn’t have satisfied him. The size, the waste. It’s too inefficient. But he obviously kept going.”
> “How is any of this obvious?” Goll asked.
“Because Kasamir was controlling his giant automaton with a similar mechanism. But the design was far more efficient and compact. Able to operate across open distances. I’m not sure how he powered that, though.”
“Demonic energy,” Goll said. “From the souls they suck into their hell pit.”
“It could be the Cordata mushrooms,” Ashlyn said to herself. “Or that machinery I saw beneath his skin…”
“What does any of this matter?” Vash cut in. He’d been pacing in the rear while they’d been talking, but had apparently lost his patience. “We’re wasting time. We need to catch up with the demons and get my son back.”
“Kasamir and his giant could have killed us as easily as a dragon kills a cow sleeping in an open field. If we want a chance at beating them, something needs to change.”
“How does this strung-up corpse change anything?”
“The giant is being run on the same system as that soldier,” Ashlyn said. “And that system is vulnerable.”
Ashlyn bent down and touched the lodestone again. But this time, instead of lightly placing a finger on the orb, she grabbed it with her fist and flexed her forearm so hard that Bershad could see every muscle and tendon between elbow and wrist.
The soldier’s arm jerked, spasmed, then exploded into a mist of dried bone and desiccated skin. Ashlyn stood up and gave Vash a look.
“If you can do that, what are we waiting for?” Vash asked.
“It’s not that simple. These are closed systems. To manipulate one side, I need access to the other.”
“Fine,” Vash said, impatient. “How do we get that?”
Ashlyn paused. Chewed her lip for a few moments before speaking again.
“We’ll all have a part to play,” she said, turning to Bershad. “Yours is going to be the most painful.”
Then she looked at Felgor. “And yours is the most important.”
21
CASTOR
City of Taggarstan
The greasy old man who had come to dine with Vallen Vergun made Castor’s asshole clench.
Osyrus Ward had arrived from nowhere on a plain canoe with no supplies—not even a water canteen. He carried no weapons, but there was a confident malice in his eyes that put Castor on his guard. “The men you sent knew their business,” Osyrus said, showing no interest in the food or wine that was placed in front of him.
“You asked for my best.” Vergun cut a fresh slice of meat with his dragontooth dagger.
Castor tried not to stare at the alleged pork loin that Vallen was eating. Failed. He always failed.
“Indeed.” Osyrus glanced at Castor. A smile touching the corners of his greasy beard. “You served in the Balarian military, yes?”
“Horellian guard,” Castor said.
“Yes, of course. I can always tell a Horellian by the tightness in their shoulders. It never leaves them, even if they leave the order. Tell me, did the empire take issue with your service?”
“I took issue with the empire.”
“Hm. And what—”
“Ward. I didn’t offer my hospitality to you so that you could interview Castor about his past. Let’s have it.”
“You want to hear about Silas Bershad.”
“When that asshole left Taggarstan last summer, I had broken every meaningful bone in his body. I want to know how he managed to haul himself out of that boat—murder seven of my men—and continue on to supposedly assassinate an emperor.”
“Oh, there is no supposition about it. Silas Bershad killed Mercer Domitian, along with a roomful of Castor’s old comrades.”
Osyrus Ward glanced at Castor, who kept his face blank. He wouldn’t have cared if someone had killed every Horellian guard in existence.
“How?” Vergun pressed.
“The short version? He has a rare blood condition that allows him to recover from wounds with great alacrity.”
“Blood condition? Dragonshit.”
“The principle itself is quite common, despite his specific condition being rare. Take your skin, for example. The albino gene lies dormant in generations of men, only to crop up in unexpected and unpredictable intervals. Of course, your anomaly comes with more drawbacks than advantages.”
“Keep talking about my drawbacks. See what happens.”
Osyrus shrugged. “Your skin condition is far less of a disadvantage than your propensity for sadism, which allowed Bershad to survive. If you had simply lopped off his head when you had the chance, it would be soaking up vinegar in one of those jars right now.” Osyrus waved at the heads of Devan and Liofa. “But I must express my thanks. It allowed me to compel him into my custody and examine him personally.”
Vergun narrowed his eyes. “You still have him?”
“Afraid not.” Osyrus’s left eye twitched. “We were making excellent initial progress. Several breakthroughs with the new cultivation formulas. But Silas Bershad has some very irritating and resourceful friends. He escaped from my laboratory before I was able to begin the crux of my trials. He also incinerated a large amount of very important research before disappearing. Overall, a catastrophic loss from which I am only now beginning to recover. Still … he will carry the remnants of my work in his blood forever. A small but interesting consolation.”
“Not to me. You said that you knew where Silas Bershad was.”
“No, I said that I knew where he would be.”
“And that is?”
“I expect him to rotate back through his homeland within the next several moons.”
“Almira.”
“Yes.”
“Where does this expectation come from?”
“Predicting the future is not hard, Vergun. Humans are all caught in an endless loop of the same simple mistakes. Bershad will return to Almira. And you will help me prepare for him.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Not really. It’s no secret that you have quietly rebuilt Wormwrot Company. Your ranks have expanded to nine hundred and ninety-four, yes?”
One thousand and three, Castor corrected internally. Nine Lysterians had filtered down from the north that morning—stowaways on a merchant carrack, escaping the ruination that Balaria was dropping on their heads. They’d fit right in.
“Surely you did not swell those numbers with plans to keep them all cooped up in Taggarstan collecting debts and ineffectually guarding gambling dens,” Osyrus continued.
Vergun sucked a piece of meat from between his front teeth. “Are you proposing another engagement?”
“Yes. I would like to hire twenty men. They must all speak fluent Balarian, and they cannot get seasick. That’s important.”
“How does this get me to Bershad?”
“It’s a process, Vallen. A long process. But everything is already in motion.”
“My men will not work for more promises of intelligence and rumors,” Vergun said. “Especially when the information you’ve brought lacks the desired detail.”
“Details are delicate. Easy to break when exposed to extra eyes. But I can arrange for five barrels of dragon oil to be delivered to you at my earliest convenience.”
Vergun kept his face blank while he considered the offer, which was worth about twenty times more than the going rate for a score of mercenaries.
“And, of course, if the operation goes smoothly, there will be more work. I will require a full engagement from Wormwrot Company in Almira. You’ll return to the world’s stage, Vergun. Your company restored at long last to their old glory. Wouldn’t that be such sweet justice, to send Bershad down the river with the knowledge that all his work at Glenlock Canyon was undone. Everything he loved taken and tarnished and ruined.”
Again, Vergun’s face was blank. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t moved by the notion. Castor had learned a long time ago that the only emotion Vergun couldn’t suppress with monklike discipline was rage.
“You’ll have your men,” he said eventually, then pi
cked up the knife. “But if this turns into a goatfuck, I will cut your heart from your chest, and the last thing you’ll see before going for the long swim is me eating it.”
Osyrus bowed his head, as if Vergun had just offered a formal pleasantry instead of a cannibalistic death threat.
“Since they’re already in Burz-al-dun, the three you sent me before are logical choices. I’ll need names and physical descriptions of the other seventeen for their seals, and I’ll run operations through Gyle.”
“Fine,” Vergun said, dismissing the details and Osyrus with the same wave of his hand.
Osyrus rose. Eyes shifting to the dragontooth dagger as he stood.
“I couldn’t help but notice your rather unusual cutting knife,” Osyrus said. “It belonged to Silas Bershad, I assume?”
Vergun thumbed the blade. “Yes.”
“That looks like a Gray-Winged Nomad’s tooth.”
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I suppose. Just interesting.”
Osyrus bowed. Left.
When he was gone, Vergun went back to eating.
“Whatever you want to say, spit it out,” he said to Castor, who realized he’d been frowning and staring at his boss.
“Sorry, it’s just…”
“Castor, do not make me pry your opinion out of you with force.”
“I don’t understand why we’re making more deals with that greasy bastard, is all.” Castor crossed his arms. “I heard plenty of stories about the Madman back in Burz-al-dun. They say he buys corpses off people so he can fuck them. It’s unsavory.”
Castor realized that he was describing Osyrus as unsavory to a man who was potentially eating a person in a tent that was definitely made from human skins, but still. There was a line, and it lay somewhere between making tents out of dead people and sticking your dick in them.
“I don’t care what he does with dead men, or live ones.” Vergun took another bite of meat. “That greasy bastard might be withholding details, but he does have a way to bring Silas Bershad to me. And that’s what I want, Castor.”
Castor didn’t say anything. Vergun laughed—a rare and odd noise.
Sorcery of a Queen Page 23
