Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  Kira screwed up her face in disgust. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Disclosing my methods was not part of our agreement.”

  “Very well,” she said softly. “Take them.”

  “You are most generous,” Osyrus Ward said cheerfully. “We should proceed to the main deck.”

  * * *

  They found Actus Thorn’s corpse splayed out across a large map of Terra. His blood stained the countries and the calculations that were scrawled across the realm. Thorn was still wearing his military breastplate, but unlike all the other dead soldiers on the skyship, his hadn’t imploded and killed him.

  His throat had been slit.

  There was a flicker of movement from a shadowy corner. Vera shoved Kira behind her while simultaneously drawing Owaru and throwing it at the figure. Her blade banged off a steel bracer with a metallic clang. She drew Kaisha and shifted into a defensive position.

  “Decimar.”

  The longbowman had an arrow nocked and drawn a heartbeat later.

  “There is no need for violence!” Osyrus said quickly, moving between her and the shadowy figure. “Come forward.”

  The man stepped out of the shadows, so Vera could see his face. He was wearing black armor and red face paint, but she recognized his features and the rings in his hair.

  “Gyle,” she said. The Wormwrot mercenary who’d helped her steal the dragon oil.

  “Aye. So much for a friendly greeting amongst old coworkers, yeah?” He rubbed the forearm that he’d used to block the dagger. The bracer was badly dented and would need several hours with a blacksmith. “Gods, you throw hard, woman. Lucky I got myself some cat reflexes or that would have divided my fucking face.”

  “I see that you elected to put on your Wormwrot colors,” Osyrus said, motioning to red paint on Gyle’s cheeks.

  “Aye. Vergun’s orders.”

  “He always had a flair for the dramatic. Very intimidating. All went according to plan, I assume?” Osyrus asked, leaning over to examine Thorn’s corpse.

  “Oh yeah, sprung off just like you said. Wasn’t no good way to get to Thorn during the flight, but once the breastplates started poppin’, it was easy. Strode in and put a big leak in his food pipe.”

  Gyle pantomimed the process of sawing a man’s throat open.

  “Why didn’t Thorn’s breastplate explode?” Kira asked.

  “Our dearly departed prime magnate was a very recalcitrant man. He outfitted his troops with the newly designed breastplates, but refused to upgrade personally, opting instead to continue wearing the same hunk of metal he had during the Almiran invasion thirty years ago. Not a major obstacle, though. An old-fashioned mindset simply calls for an old-fashioned solution.”

  He pointed at Gyle, who smiled. “Stowaways and backstabbing in the dark. Just my style.”

  “It’s dirty business,” Kira said mildly. “But so was shooting a bunch of lords and wardens in the back while they were eating dinner.” She looked around the room. “And both tasks were necessary.”

  “I agree,” Osyrus said, bowing his head. “You now have twenty-nine ships at your disposal. I am happy to provide my acolytes as intermediary crew until we can consolidate manpower and train our own, loyal troops. What will you do with your new fleet?”

  “Disarm it,” Kira said.

  “Disarm?” Osyrus asked. Surprised for the first time that Vera could recall. “Why would we do that?”

  “I will not continue down the path that my father and Mercer and all the other rulers of Terra have cleared for me. Look at where it has led. The whole world is on fire, and I will not stoke the flames. Remove the explosives and the archer stations and anything else that can be used for destruction. These are war frigates no longer. They will become beacons of peace and prosperity in the realm of Terra.”

  She turned to Vera. “First, we will unite Almira. Then we will open trade lines with the other countries of Terra, one by one. I am sure that whoever now rules Balaria is someone that I know. And Okinu is my aunt. I can do this.” She paused. “I will fix the mess that I created when I ran away with Ganon.”

  Osyrus began twisting his beard into greasy knots. “A noble goal, Empress. But even the first step of uniting Almira will prove difficult. The small lords of the Atlas Coast will likely support you without much convincing—the Malgrave name always carried water in that province. But the Daintree jaguars have been in full revolt since the summer. And that jungle is the one place in Terra where the skyship’s strength is diminished by the canopy. Perhaps if we began with a show of force, we might be able to—”

  “No. The jaguars rebelled against Linkon Pommol. Not against me. We’ll send emissaries to their leadership, inform them that Pommol and his government no longer exist, and offer a parley. I’ll make peace with the Dainwood, then everyone else.”

  Vera glanced at Decimar, who gave her a satisfied nod. Kira was a long way from fulfilling the promises that Vera had made on her behalf back in that kitchen, but she’d taken the first step.

  Osyrus stopped twisting his beard. Gave a smile. “Well, who am I to stand in the way of a realm-wide peace? I am just glad that my ships may serve as tools toward such a magnanimous purpose.”

  “Good, Osyrus. I am glad I can count on your support.”

  “Gyle,” Osyrus said pleasantly. “Please wait for us outside.”

  The mercenary gave a nod, spat on the floor, and left—closing the hatch behind him. Vera listened for footfalls and gauged that he was three strides to the left of the door. She made a mental note to leave on that side of Kira.

  “There is also the matter of the Wormwrot mercenaries we now have in Floodhaven.”

  “Mercenaries? Plural?”

  “I planted stowaways on the larger ships in the unlikely event there were survivors. Assuming there were no complications, we now have half a score of Gyle’s comrades at our disposal.”

  “A score of unpredictable killers, you mean,” Vera said, remembering Rike and Wun from Balaria. “They’re a liability behind the walls of Floodhaven.”

  “Agreed,” Osyrus said. “I propose we send them beyond the city walls.” He paused. “The Time’s Daughter crashed in that eucalyptus forest for unknown reasons. But it was carrying the first prototype Kor engine. She has by far the largest cargo capacity and fuel longevity in the fleet. Losing her is a great forfeiture to us, since she would have been able to transport enormous amounts of food to the far corners of the realm. But Wormwrot could salvage the ship at dawn.”

  “Yes,” Kira said. “I agree, we must salvage the ship.”

  Vera glanced at Decimar. He shrugged. “I’d take the Blue Sparrow and do it with my men, but that leaves the castle vulnerable.”

  And if the castle was vulnerable, so was Kira.

  “Very well,” said Vera. “Give the Wormwrot men horses and send them to the wreck.”

  “Time is of the essence, I’m afraid. The longer that ship stays in those woods, the greater chance that her machinery will be damaged by animals or pillaged by locals. As I said, my acolytes are all trained pilots. They can ensure that Wormwrot salvages all valuable technology.”

  “We need the Time’s Daughter,” said Kira. “If not the entire ship, then the engine.”

  Vera chewed on the inside of her cheek. Those mercenaries were Osyrus Ward’s creatures, just like his gray-skinned acolytes. She did not like giving them such independence and control. But she didn’t like any of the alternatives, either.

  “Do it.”

  41

  JOLAN

  Almira, Wreckage of the Time’s Daughter

  “How many ships?” Cumberland barked up to Iko.

  Everyone was outside the wreckage, looking up at her.

  She paused to count.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Attacking the city?”

  “No. Just hovering over it.”

  “If they came all this way, why wouldn’t they attack?” Willem said.

&n
bsp; “Because they were all wearing their armor like Quinn,” Jolan responded. “They’re all dead.”

  “Some kind of rebellion?” Sten asked from his seat by the burned-out fire.

  “Septimus mentioned that there was unrest amongst the Balarians,” Jolan said.

  “Who’s Septimus?” Willem asked.

  “The navigator,” Jolan said. “The one that Shoshone k—”

  “Black skies,” Iko hissed from the tree.

  “What?”

  “One of the ships is moving now.” She paused, watching. “And it’s heading directly for us.”

  “How long?” Cumberland asked.

  Another pause.

  “I’d say we have about thirty minutes.”

  “Shit,” Cumberland muttered.

  Iko dropped down from the tree. “Plan?”

  “No time to run in a way that won’t leave a shitload of boot prints. Not with Sten’s leg. Even a half-blind Balarian will be able to track us. But we’re going to be outnumbered bad in a fight.”

  “That’s never stopped us before,” Willem said.

  “What if we can do it without a fight?” Jolan asked.

  Everyone turned to him.

  “No fight?” Willem asked. “That ship’s gonna be throwing a shadow on us real soon, and whether it’s full of Balarians or some other manner of asshole, I doubt they’ll be friendly to a bunch of jaguar wardens and a Papyrian widow.”

  “But they’ll be friendly to me,” Jolan said. “A boy. An alchemist. Alone in the wreckage and the corpses. Or looking that way, at least. I can talk my way out of this.”

  Cumberland sucked on his teeth. “Don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” Jolan said. “But it’s the best chance we have to get through this without bloodshed.”

  They looked at each other, then at the landscape.

  “That ridge has good cover,” Willem said.

  “In range of my sling,” Iko continued. “And your crossbow. It could work.”

  “So we’re the overwatch…” Willem said, then looked to Cumberland and Oromir.

  “And we are the corpses,” Oromir finished.

  “What about this one?” Willem said, giving Garret’s bindings a yank.

  “This is going to be simpler with fewer elements,” Iko said. “We can’t trust him, so we should kill him.”

  “Agreed,” said Willem.

  But they both looked at Cumberland to decide. Cumberland turned to Jolan.

  “You know him. You decide.”

  Now that the decision did fall to Jolan, he wasn’t so sure that he wanted it. He glanced at Oromir, whose jaw and lips were tight. He shook his head once, then said softly, “He is dangerous, Jolan.”

  Jolan’s heart sank a little. He didn’t know what he’d expected from Oromir. But he’d wanted something else.

  Lastly, he turned to Garret. Whose eyes were as cold and unknowable as ever.

  “Don’t kill him. Bring him up to the ridge and chain him to a tree, where he’s out of the way.”

  * * *

  They made their preparations as quickly as they could. Jolan had just barely gotten himself situated on Quinn’s corpse when the airship came into view over the trees and threw a shadow over everything. Black ropes dropped to the ground with a thump, followed by twenty armed men in black armor. All of them wore red face paint, which Jolan had read in a history of war was a common practice with mercenaries from the far side of the Soul Sea. So, there had been a Balarian coup. But who were they serving? Who had hired them?

  Jolan raised his hands over his head while the men surrounded him. Oromir was three strides to his left, playing dead.

  “I’m not armed!” he said, raising his voice so he could be heard.

  “The fuck you doing out here, boy?” one man asked, speaking Almiran with a Dainwood accent. He was a local. Or had been, at one point.

  “I’m an alchemist.”

  “Didn’t ask for your vocation. Asked what you’re doing sitting on a corpse in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I have a business proposition for you. I speak on behalf of my master, a man named Morgan Mo—”

  “Shut up for second,” the man said. “Rike. Wun. Full perimeter check. Everyone else inside the ship for salvage.”

  Two massive Lysterians headed into the woods. Most of the soldiers headed into the gaping hole in the side of the ship.

  The man turned back to Jolan.

  “So what is it that you’re doing perched on that corpse? Trying to pretend you weren’t pillaging the ship?”

  “There’s no reason for me to go inside that ship. Everything I need is out here.” He motioned to the dead bodies they’d laid out in front of Jolan.

  “Corpse robber.”

  “Alchemist. Like I said. My order can do a lot with a corpse. Dentistry. Tissue replacement. General anatomical study and the charting of different diseases’ impacts on organs.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Arrive at the point, kid.”

  “Very well.” Jolan paused, dug into his pocket. Came back with a handful of coins. “My master would like to buy one of the corpses.”

  The man squinted at the coins. “How’s it you’ve managed to get yourself in the position to purchase dead bodies so quickly?”

  “We run an apothecary just over that ridge,” Jolan said, the lie coming easy and natural. “Heard the crash last night, and my master sent me to check on survivors. If there weren’t any, he told me to bring back a good dead body on my sledge.”

  Jolan motioned to the half-finished sledge they’d built in a hurry. Sten was already loaded inside and pretending to be dead.

  “You got a few options here. What’s special about that one?”

  “He was showing signs of liver cirrhosis. My master has an interest in the effects of the disease, which will be evident in a post mortem surgery.”

  “Post what?”

  “After he’s dead.”

  “Hm. Well, boy, as it turns out, my master has a pretty keen interest in dead bodies, too. You bookish types are all pretty strange when you get up close and scrutinize the measure of your habits.” He glanced at the gold. Then back at the two men behind him, who both nodded approval of the proposition. “But letting go of one croaker ain’t gonna get noticed, don’t think. Let’s have that coin.”

  Jolan handed it over. Heart racing when the man came close. His fingernails had blood and grease caked beneath them.

  “There. You got your trade. Get lost then, yeah?”

  Jolan nodded. Hustled over to the sledge. It was half built, but put-together enough for him to drag it into the forest and wait for the ship to depart. He pulled the makeshift straps over his shoulders. Prepared to haul it into the nearest overgrowth.

  Five soldiers emerged from the ship. One of them shrugged. “Ain’t in there, Gyle.”

  “Fuck you mean? The ship flew itself out here, didn’t it?”

  “Sure, but the engine tray’s been yanked out. No Kor inside.”

  “No Kor, huh.” He looked back to Jolan, who was cursing internally and trying to haul the massive sled away as quickly as possible, but not getting anywhere fast.

  “Hold up, boy. You go in there?”

  “No,” Jolan said, stopping.

  “See anyone come out?”

  “No.”

  “We got all kinds of boot prints in the wreckage,” said one soldier. “Beds all used up, too. Like someone spent the night. Recent, like.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gyle rubbed his beard. “That is all fine. But I’m gonna need to search that sledge of yours and make sure you didn’t sneak off with something a little more valuable than a dead body.” He drew a knife from his belt and began picking his way between the bodies.

  Jolan twitched. Sighed. “I tried to do it peacefully,” he muttered.

  “I know,” Oromir said, opening his eyes.

  “The fuck?” Gyle asked, startled at the voice. />
  Oromir sprang up and stabbed him through the center of his breastplate.

  The two mercenaries who’d been with Gyle lifted their weapons. One’s head exploded a heartbeat later. Willem’s bolt thumped into the other man’s chest, slamming him on his back.

  “Run, Jolan!” Oromir hissed, then yanked his sword free from Gyle’s chest and rushed the group of soldiers—outnumbered five to one. They angled up against him, grinning at the overmatched idiot.

  One of their heads exploded. A second took a bolt to the belly and doubled over.

  Behind them, Cumberland rose from beneath a corpse and ran his greatsword across the backs of two men’s thighs. They crumpled, and he took their heads off with the backswing.

  The remaining mercenary—who was now surrounded and, for the moment, outnumbered himself—charged Oromir.

  “I said get clear!” Oromir shouted at Jolan. Then launched into a set of lightning-fast parries. “Now!”

  Jolan sprinted up the ridge. The screams of steel on steel hammered through the dawn air while he climbed the hill, back to Willem’s position. When he got there, Willem was aiming his crossbow, lips twitching with irritation. Jolan looked back at the skyship’s wreckage to see the ten remaining mercenaries pouring out of it and surrounding Oromir and Cumberland.

  Willem fired a bolt, but it landed far short of the closest mercenary.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, reloading the weapon. “They’re too far away.”

  “We need to get down there,” Iko said.

  “Yeah.” Willem put a hand on Jolan’s shoulder. “You need to run.”

  “No.”

  “It’s four on ten. This will get ugly. Go, Jolan.”

  “I won’t. Not with Oromir down there.”

  Willem cursed. “Fine.”

  Then he pushed his crossbow into Jolan’s chest.

  “It’s loaded. You just have to point and squeeze this trigger. You’ll only have the one shot, so make it count.”

  “Shoot at what?”

  “Anyone who comes up this hill that ain’t us.”

  With that, Willem and Iko ran toward the fight.