Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

“Welcome, Silas Bershad.” She spoke Almiran with an articulate voice. “I’m Kerrigan la Custar. Captain of the Naga Killer Corsair Company and mayor of Naga Rock.”

  Kerrigan had the obsidian-black skin of a Dunfarian. A close-cropped mohawk that was dyed bright blue. The rest of her head was shaved. Features smooth and round. She wore a simple leather jerkin and pants.

  And she had a thick blue bar running down each of her dark cheeks.

  “You’re a dragonslayer.”

  “Points for observation. Yes. Although I am not nearly as famous or prolific as you.” She held up her left arm, which was corded in wiry muscle. Only one dragon was tattooed there—a well-drawn Naga Soul Strider. “Do not worry, the bars themselves mean nothing in Naga Rock. All exiles are given an opportunity to join our miniature but prosperous nation.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Then you must also know that before we go any further, an interview is required. Please.” Kerrigan extended an arm to a reed mat on the far side of the table. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you ever since I heard you’d arrived. We exiles of Terra share a bond.”

  “We share a set of ugly tattoos.”

  Kerrigan’s smile faded slightly. “Have you ever met another dragonslayer face-to-face before?” she asked.

  “Let me save you some time. I know all about your interview process and your lizard-killer sanctuary. I’m not interested. And I don’t have time to sit and chat about the particulars of why. Just show me the door, I’ll limp through it, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Oh, but you do have time for a chat,” Kerrigan said, voice sharpening. “Because you’ll never leave this room alive unless you answer each of my questions with as much detail as possible, and I like the details that you provide. You clearly aren’t a stranger to crossbow bolts, but my men will put enough of them into your body to kill you if I give the order. Understood?”

  Bershad glared at her for a moment. He didn’t have a choice.

  “Fine.”

  “Fantastic. Now, have you ever met another dragonslayer before arriving on this island?”

  “That always the question you start with?”

  “Yes. Answer it.”

  Bershad sighed. “Sure, I’ve met one. Maybe seven or eight years ago, an impatient small lord put out two writs for one Needle-Throated Verdun and we both showed up the same night. Didn’t have much to talk about, though. He was a cattle thief who’d gone insane from cock rot.” Bershad tapped his temple. “That shit will spread everywhere if you let it. He spent the whole night huddled by a low fire, muttering meaningless words to his donkey and chewing on his fingernails.”

  “Interesting. Most of the exiles I interview have never met another blue-barred face until arriving here. Strange, isn’t it? The dragonslayer custom means so much to this realm, but there are so few of us around.”

  “Short life expectancies will do that.”

  “Indeed.” Kerrigan adjusted one of the rocks weighing down the scroll ever so slightly. “What happened to him? The cock-rotted dragonslayer.”

  The poor bastard had arrived an hour before Bershad, so he’d made the first pass. He pissed himself as soon as the Verdun appeared. Tried to run away. Got his lungs clawed out for the trouble. Bershad killed the lizard the next day. He remembered that a swatch of the criminal’s sore-covered skin was still lodged underneath the great lizard’s claws.

  “The same thing that happens to all dragonslayers eventually,” Bershad said.

  “But not to you. Or to me. Or anyone else living in Naga Rock.”

  “That’s your sales pitch, then? Safe harbor and safe haven?”

  “Correct. At this juncture, I generally inquire about the circumstances in which you acquired your bars, and the length of time you’ve had them. However, in this case I already know the answer to both those questions.”

  Bershad scratched at a massive scab on his forearm left over from a crossbow bolt. “How long have you had yours?”

  “Ah, now there’s the one way in which I’ve surpassed your legend.” She tapped one cheek. “These were needled into my skin sixteen years ago at the Argellian customs house. You know it?”

  “I do. Last time I saw it, a Red Skull was tearing it apart.”

  Kerrigan snorted. “Good. What happened to the dragon?”

  “I killed it.”

  “Of course you did.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “What was your crime?” Bershad asked.

  Kerrigan opened her palms. “Bringing a pair of dark-skinned tits and a lot of money to a port of Ghalamar.”

  “That right? You sure there wasn’t a little piracy involved, too?”

  “A fair assumption. But my exile turned me into the criminal, not the other way around. I used to be a law-abiding merchant with a fleet of ten trading galleys and a rather wonderful villa back in Palmunatra, the jewel of Dunfar.”

  “You must have done something,” Bershad said.

  Kerrigan snorted. “Oh, are the laws of Terra historically packed full of unsullied justice in your experience? All I did was spill some wine on the baron of Argel’s carpet and refuse to suck his cock in exchange for a lower tax rate. I’ve interviewed hundreds of wayward exiles. Most don’t deserve the punishment they received.”

  “But you kill the ones who do.”

  “When necessary,” Kerrigan admitted. “But everyone who comes to Naga Rock is given a choice.”

  “A choice,” Bershad repeated. He thought of the tattooed faces he’d seen in those bushes by the red river. Some were grizzled, hard faces. But others had been too young to have spent ten years marauding for the alchemist.

  They were new.

  “I get it,” he said. “The options are a quick death in this massive acorn thing, or joining Simeon and his blackhearted murderers who feed the alchemist’s lust for prisoners while you run your little city in peace.”

  Kerrigan narrowed her eyes, like a cat who’d just spotted a wounded bird in a tree. “How do you know about the alchemist?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Because I deserve my bars. Nobody’d argue different, given how Glenlock Canyon went down. And I want to be sent to Simeon.”

  “You have a mind to join his band of vicious murderers?”

  “I have a mind to kill him.”

  “No. Not so fast. I need some detail here, starting with why you came to this island to begin with. It clearly wasn’t for sanctuary.” She raised a hand before Bershad spoke. “Lying to me now is a choice you make. One that will have lethal consequences.”

  Bershad sucked on his teeth. “I came here with Ashlyn Malgrave. We were looking for Ghost Moth dragons and a crazy man’s research. Things didn’t go so great. She’s imprisoned by Simeon up north, along with my friend and some of your crew. Goll. Vash. Wendell.”

  The curiosity on Kerrigan’s faced disappeared. Replaced by a cold, simmering rage. “How did that happen?”

  “We ran into your men by some lake. I killed a bear that was about to kill them, so they agreed to take us to the bone wall.”

  “Did they also tell you that was forbidden?”

  “They did. But seeing as I’d saved their lives, they were open to bending the rules. Especially Goll.”

  “Fucking Lysterians and their blood debts. You know that’s the fourth time he’s put one on himself? The last one was a Pargossian witch doctor who pulled a splinter out of his infected foot. He disappeared for two months retrieving some rare bird’s egg from a remote mountain peak to repay the favor. Pain in my ass. Nothing like an archaic tradition to make otherwise intelligent people act like morons.”

  “You and Ashlyn would get along.”

  “Glad to hear I have a witch queen’s tacit approval.” She waved her hand. “Continue.”

  “We reached the wall, but ran into some trouble there. Had to break our way through. Long and short of that story is that we killed this alchemist named Kasamir, along w
ith his mushroom-giant thing. That woke up a bunch of infected people he buried in the ground, so we had to get moving. On the way out, Simeon stopped us, filled me with bolts, and took everyone else prisoner.”

  Kerrigan’s eye twitched a little. “You fucking morons. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Bershad pushed a finger into one of the crossbow wounds in his belly. Winced. “Yeah. Tried to save the world and bungled the job pretty good.”

  “Bungled? Bungled is not the word I would use. I’ve kept the peace with the alchemist for a decade while Naga Rock prospered. It was a delicate and treacherous balance—every day it could have fallen apart—but I held it together. For ten. Years. And you’ve pissed it away in two weeks. Put one thousand and sixty-three souls in danger.”

  “Might be I did. But you’re the one who built a whole city on the precipice of doom, and laid the foundation with Simeon’s murderous gang.”

  “No other place in Terra would have us.”

  Bershad shrugged. “I’m just saying that it’s some hypocritical dragonshit to try and lay this all on me. Plenty of blame on both sides of your polished table.”

  She glared at him, but didn’t argue the point any further. “The creatures will be coming for us. The alchemist promised they would come to Naga Rock and eat every last man, woman, and child if we ever broke the pact, or if he ever died.” She chewed on her lip. “We’ll evacuate. No way around it.”

  Bershad remembered the creatures he’d seen digging their way out of the ground. Then he imagined the members of that theater troupe trying to fight them. Yeah. Running away seemed like the right move.

  “What about your men that Simeon’s got prisoner?”

  “They’re the idiots who caused all this. Or helped you cause it, anyway. They deserve whatever fate Simeon has for them.”

  Bershad shrugged. “Maybe. But if you’ll give me a boat and a weapon, might be I can get them back, along with my friends.”

  “You’re half crippled. You aren’t rescuing anyone.”

  “That’ll change if you’ve got a spare pinch of Gods Moss somewhere amidst all that treasure.”

  “What, you got a case of fire piss you wanna cure before you go and get yourself killed?”

  “Do you have the moss or not?”

  “I’m rich and I am well supplied,” Kerrigan said. “But I’m not that rich. And nobody living on a haunted island in the middle of the Big Empty is that well supplied.”

  “Then I’ll go like this.”

  “You have four crossbow bolts poking out of your back.”

  “So? It’s my life to cut short. You were vaguely planning on killing me anyway.”

  Kerrigan weighed that. Chewed her lip some more.

  “You really came up here with Ashlyn Malgrave? Okinu’s niece?”

  Bershad saw where Kerrigan’s thoughts were going. If she really intended to abandon her little city, she needed another safe harbor. And having Ashlyn vouch for her when they came to Papyria was about her only option.

  “I did. And Ashlyn remembers the people who help her.”

  A little more lip chewing. A little more internal debate.

  “There’s another way to get them back. Parley.”

  “Simeon didn’t strike me as the negotiating type.”

  “He and I have a history. He was my forsaken shield.”

  Bershad frowned. “How’d that happen?”

  “When you get exiled in Argel, they give you the pick of the dungeon for your companion. Usually you get half-dead thieves who’ve been rotting in a cell for weeks, but I was lucky. Simeon had been arrested a day earlier for allegedly crossing the Line of Lornar and was set for execution the next day.”

  “Argellians love their Skojit executions.”

  “Indeed. My thinking was that a hulking killer like him might come in handy, and I was right. We drew the writ for the Naga, and after I killed it, Simeon helped me escape. We founded this place together. And when the alchemist made the offer. Well.” She swallowed. “Let’s just say that we have unfinished business I’m inclined to complete.”

  She glanced at a clock on the wall of the hive.

  “The evacuation takes time. A few days at least to load everything onto the ships. While my crew is doing that, I’ll sail north and see if I can talk some sense into Simeon. Goll and Vash fucked me over here, but they’re still my people.”

  Kerrigan gave a sly smile.

  “And I never turn down a chance for a queen to owe me a favor.”

  43

  CABBAGE

  Ghost Moth Island, the Proving Ground

  Cabbage was so hungover that the Proving Ground alarm bell felt like someone was pounding nails into his temples. He rolled over on his cot. Pulled the moldy straw pillow over his head and squeezed. Tried to muffle out the bell, and when that didn’t work, gave some serious thought to pressing a little harder and attempting to smother himself.

  “Up, Cabbage,” came Howell’s raspy voice.

  Cabbage didn’t respond.

  Howell came over and dropped his heavy dragon-bone shield on Cabbage’s foot.

  “Ow!”

  “I said get up.”

  Cabbage rolled over. Squinted up at the gold-toothed pirate. “That fucking hurt.”

  Howell raised his Naga spear—barbed tip jagged and threatening. “Hurt as much as me slicing off a few fingers? ’Cause that’s what I’ll take as punishment for slow rousing, seeing as your ears have already gone for a walk.”

  The crazy alchemist had given Simeon the shield and spear along with the armor. Simeon had fought with them for years, but a few summers back, Howell had saved Simeon’s life during the raid of a Dunfarian spice carrack that turned out to have fifty royal guardsmen waiting in the hold. Classic ambush. The particulars of Simeon’s salvation were a matter of debate—neither Simeon nor Howell talked about it—but when they came back to Ghost Moth Island, Simeon promoted Howell to first mate and he gave him the shield and spear as a reward.

  In Cabbage’s experience, their Skojit captain was a mean bastard all the way down to his bones. Saving his life was the only known way to win his respect, and his respect came with great reward. Cabbage had seen Howell use that spear to skewer fully armored Almiran wardens like they were roasted steaks. And that shield had withstood a hundred sword blades and arrowheads without taking so much as a scratch.

  Sadly, Cabbage had never had the chance to earn that kind of gratitude from Simeon. Or, if he had been given the chance, he hadn’t recognized the opportunity.

  “Are we under attack?” Cabbage asked.

  “Naw. Kerrigan showed up with a parley flag. But Simeon wants everyone up on it.”

  “Why? It’s a parley.”

  “All the excitement lately, he smells trouble. Now get up. Gear up. And get down to the dock.”

  * * *

  Cabbage puked twice in his shit bucket, then went to the big cistern and took a few big swallows from the potato liquor to get his head right. Grabbed his crossbow, then headed down to the docks with the others to meet the captain of their southern counterpart.

  Calling it a dock was generous. More a scattering of rotten planks thrown haphazardly over ancient iron pylons where they lashed their shallops. Simeon was never one for general upkeep and maintenance to anything besides weapons and armor. And seeing as the alchemist was the only bastard who could repair most of their gear, even that had gone by the wayside.

  Simeon was already there. Hands on his hips. White armor glowing in the sun. Howell was next to him. Kerrigan’s shallop had just about reached the dock. There were six oarsmen digging to shore at speed, which wasn’t that fast, likely due to the three big cargo chests they were hauling. Behind her, there was an anchored frigate flying the blue parley flag.

  Kerrigan hopped off her shallop and skipped across the decaying dock—arms open to show she had no weapons on her.

  Simeon gave her a long once-over. Sniffed. Spat. “Been a long time, Kerri.” />
  “Yes,” she agreed. “Last cause for a parley was when a squall knocked that Papyrian warship into eyesight of the island last year and we had to tool up together.”

  “Aye. That was a good fight.”

  Kerrigan didn’t say anything. Guess she wasn’t much for reminiscing on violent times. Cabbage scratched at the place his ears used to be, trying not to dwell on the fact that if he’d stayed quiet when it came time to choose crews way back, he’d probably still have them attached to his head.

  “So what brings you up my way?” Simeon asked, all pleasant and helpful in a way that made Cabbage’s cock shrink. Simeon was always in the best of moods when the threat of violence loomed close. “Doesn’t seem like you made the trek just to get nostalgic with your trusty forsaken shield.”

  “There’s been some trouble. Outlanders from Papyria showed up. Broke open the bone wall and killed the alchemist.”

  “Yeah, I heard something to that effect.”

  “And that doesn’t strike you as news worth discussing? There’s a hole in the bone wall the size of a Balarian highway. Kasamir’s creatures have already started coming through. You understand? Naga Rock is finished. My people are evacuating right now.”

  Simeon shrugged. “That’s your problem. The mushroom people don’t cross the Bloody Sludge, so I’m good here. And don’t think you and yours can shack up with us. We like plenty o’ space.”

  “Simeon. Don’t be a prick. If the alchemist is dead, there’s no more point to it all. No need for the reavings. The murders. You can let it go.”

  “There’s always a reason. You just never understood it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You thought I was willing to carry the alchemist’s black work so you could build your little city of rutting exiles. Run your grand experiment in free governance. I could give a fuck about Naga Rock. I made the pact because I wanted to kill as many lowlanders as I could. That’s what I’ve been doing, that’s what I’m gonna keep doing. Some dead alchemist don’t change shit.”

  Cabbage wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that kind of wickedness coming from Simeon’s mouth. He hadn’t thrown in with Simeon’s crew to protect Naga Rock, either. He did it for plunder. But killing for pay and killing for the sheer joy of it were two vastly different things in Cabbage’s opinion.