Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “Bloody hell,” Cabbage muttered, checking his bolt jam again for no reason. Not like its status had changed in the last minute. Then he worked his stubborn legs into a rough trot around the tier. Cabbage was grumpy, cold, and a bit of a coward in general. But he followed Simeon’s orders without a whiff of second-guessing. Otherwise the whole world went to shit.

  The eastern side of the Proving Ground was lit up a little better than the seaward side. There were two, twin dragon-oil braziers burning down at the main gate, and their light ignited the tiers above. The outline of a man emerged. Cabbage raised his crossbow. Aimed.

  Don’t hesitate, he told himself, while doing exactly that. Don’t hesitate. Don’t—

  A moment before squeezing the trigger, he pulled up short, recognizing Carl’s familiar and drunk, stumbling gate. Although he was stumbling an awful lot more than he had been a few minutes ago.

  “Carl?”

  “Hey, Cabbage,” he said, continuing forward another step or two. He was clutching his left side with his right arm.

  “You all right, Carl?”

  “Naw.” He stopped. Checked the place along his rib cage. “Naw, don’t think I am. Fucker came out of nowhere.”

  He collapsed in a heap. Cabbage ran over, forgetting to keep his guard up. There was a stab wound between the slats of Carl’s rib guard. Blood pouring out. Cabbage could tell from the power of the bleed that his heart was probably cut in half. Nothing to be done but stay with him while he died.

  “Who did it?” he asked.

  “Some naked demon.”

  “One o’ the mushroom people, you mean?”

  “Naw. Never seen someone like him. Skin’s all black. Had spikes sproutin’ out his back. Scary bastard.”

  Carl died.

  And when Cabbage looked up, a naked man who was covered from head to toe with night tar and holding a wet fishing knife was standing in front of him. Broken crossbow bolts sprouted from his back.

  “Fuck,” Cabbage said, hefting his crossbow. But before he could get it level, the man rushed forward, ripped it from his hands, then rammed it into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He puked on the ground next to Carl’s corpse. White, chunky leftovers of the night’s porridge.

  The man stood over him. He recognized those green eyes—the color of midsummer moss, swimming in a sea of dark. Not a demon.

  That was the Flawless Bershad.

  “Don’t. Please.”

  Bershad didn’t say anything. Just raised the crossbow and aimed it at Cabbage’s face. He was about to squeeze the trigger when some flicker of movement caught Bershad’s attention. There was a loud slam of boots on the metal tier. Bershad raised his crossbow to the noise and released a bolt.

  But there was no soft thump of bolt piercing flesh. No scream or groan. Instead, Cabbage heard the hollow snap of the bolt breaking against dragon scales.

  Simeon was on Bershad a moment later, swinging his fists in a rattle of churning gears and clacking scales. His red hair flooded out the back of the helm and flailed around like a fox’s tail. Bershad dodged the punches, and when Simeon went to take him in a bear hug—one of his favorite ways to vanquish people—Bershad ducked, pressed the crossbow against a seam in his armor, and fired a second bolt.

  Simeon grunted. Elbowed Bershad in the face, which sent him stumbling backward a few paces. His nose and ear started bleeding. Eye swelling. They glared at each other.

  “You ain’t easy to kill,” Simeon growled from behind his helm. “But that don’t mean you got the muscle to put me down.”

  “You’re right.”

  A flash of gray cut through the blanket of fog. Dragon talons snapped down and raked Simeon across his back. Put him on the ground. Cabbage closed his eyes and waited to be killed by either dragon or dragonslayer. But neither happened.

  “Open your eyes, you coward,” Simeon growled.

  Cabbage obeyed. Despite the fact that Simeon had just been struck by a dragon, he was already back on his feet and squared for a fight. But the tier was empty.

  “Slippery bastard,” Simeon muttered.

  “Did he ride off on the dragon?” Cabbage asked, finally getting up.

  “Don’t be a moron.” Simeon went over to the railing, wincing and rubbing the place the dragon had mauled him. He ignored the bolt that was sticking out of his side. Turned around and looked up to the top level. “He either went up, or down.”

  “Which one, you think?”

  Someone below them fired a crossbow bolt. Cursed. Then there was a wet splatter followed by a long gurgle.

  “Down.” Simeon hopped over the railing. “On me, Cabbage.”

  “It’s a long way down, boss.”

  “Take the stairs if you ain’t got the walnuts for a little jump.”

  And then he was gone into the fog.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Cabbage muttered, drawing his sword and heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time despite the screaming protestations of his ankle.

  When he got down to the open area in front of the main gate, there were four corpses scattered around the yard. Simeon was crouched in front of a fifth man, holding his guts in for him.

  “You sure he went into the woods?” Simeon asked.

  “Aye, boss. Naked fucker pulled my guts out then drug Ezra off that way.”

  He pointed east. Straight into the wilting forest that dipped down into a deep valley before hitting the Bloody Sludge.

  “I see his footprints,” said Simeon. “Crazy asshole isn’t even wearing boots.”

  A crowd was developing by then—everyone had come off the tier after hearing the commotion. Simeon’s crew were good sailors and good killers, but they were shit when it came to defensive discipline.

  “What’s the situation, boss?” said Howell. A few of the men stepped aside to let the veteran warrior pass. The dragon-bone shield was slung over his back. He was carrying the Naga spear all casual in one hand, despite the situation.

  “The lizard killer’s alive. He ran off into the wilts with Ezra.” Simeon pointed. “Let’s go kill him.”

  That was the thing with Simeon. Nobody was calmer in a head-on fight. Focused and murderous and full of deranged joy. But he got frustrated by subtlety and deception. Drove the bastard mad. Turned him into an idiot.

  “He’s baiting us,” said Cabbage.

  “Don’t fucking care. He dies tonight.”

  The men gave a rumble of battle grunts. Cabbage was less enthusiastic about the prospect of chasing a naked and angry Flawless Bershad through the wilted forest.

  “Shouldn’t some of us hang back?” Cabbage asked. “Form a perimeter so he can’t sneak back through and steal the queen?”

  “You turning coward on me, Cabbage?”

  “Naw, boss. Just trying to think it all through a little. He came to get the queen, not to gut Ezra in the wilts.”

  Simeon looked at Howell, who gave a begrudging nod. “The earless fuck has a point, boss.”

  Far off in the forest, a bloodcurdling cry rang out. Ezra.

  “Fine,” Simeon snarled. “I’ll go out alone. Howell, you’re in charge o’ defenses here. Do not lose track of my tinker queen.”

  “Aye, boss.”

  There were murmurs of agreement. Simeon barreled off into the woods at speed—pale armor swallowed by the darkness. The men looked to Howell for orders, which he started rattling off in quick succession.

  “Butcher. Kenpo. Trundle. You’re on the main gate. Echo, get down to the queen’s cell and stay outside. Turtle. Keen. Get an irregular sweep of the western wall going. Shadow and Weasel, work the east. I’ll head to the centrifuge and monitor the alarms. Anyone gets into trouble, find a trap and set it off. I’ll come for you.”

  Whoever had built the Proving Ground had riddled the place with booby traps. The alchemist had shown Simeon all the locations, but he’d decided to leave them armed and force the men to work around them. Said it made the place less inviting to the Papyrian military.
r />   That was true. But it also made it extremely hazardous to a wandering drunk man. Over the years, at least a half score of men in the crew had perished from placing a wobbly foot in the wrong spot in the Proving Ground.

  Howell continued giving orders. The men bounced into action. Cabbage waited for his orders, which arrived last, and were predicated by a shiny smirk from Howell, which did not bode well.

  “Cabbage, go run the sea rail again then report back.”

  Of course Howell would give him the job with the most steps. Howell knew about his dodgy ankle—Cabbage complained about it more than he should—but in this case he didn’t mind the shitty assignment. He figured it was better to torment a single joint than open himself up to the possibility of his entire viscera getting yanked out of his stomach like Ezra.

  “Aye, Howell. I’m on it.”

  Cabbage began the climb. Now that he’d been running around, his ankle was sending spikes of pain up his leg with each step. But the nervous knots in his belly slowly loosened as he got farther away from the woods, and the possibility of disembowelment via fishing knife. That was the closest he’d come to dying in a while. And once again, it was Simeon who saved him. For such an objectively evil bastard, the man looked out for his own.

  Once Cabbage was relaxed enough to realize he had to piss, the feeling came with considerable urgency.

  He made his way up to the very top of the Proving Ground to relieve himself. Something about pissing off high places made him feel the way he imagined a king might feel. He got to his favorite spot, undid his trousers, and let things fly. Cabbage wondered what country he’d prefer to be the king of. Lysteria and Ghalamar were both conquered, so they were out. Papyria didn’t have kings. Almira was a muddy shithole. Pargos, maybe. The Alchemist Order had a big library there. Maybe as king he could hire one of them to make a potion that’d regrow his ears.

  Cabbage stopped pissing. Something was wrong. He frowned. Turned around.

  The top hatch was open.

  The hatch itself was an exhaust vent that was built to flush toxic fumes out of the Proving Ground, back when some crazy bastard was doing all his experiments. Simeon’s crew always kept the thing closed on cold nights because it shuttled freezing air through the barracks.

  That being said, the occasional pirate was known to sneak away from his post and steal a nap in the upper tunnel. Pig, in particular, made a habit of it. And Cabbage hadn’t seen Pig all night. But he would have closed the hatch behind him if he was stealing a nap. ’Cause of the drafts.

  With a growing sense of unease, Cabbage made his way over to the open hatch. Peeked inside.

  There was a substantial puddle of blood on the floor beneath. Cabbage seriously doubted that the previous owner of the blood was still alive.

  Flawless Bershad must have come back up this way. Seemed impossible. But Cabbage had trouble conjuring a more likely explanation.

  Cabbage would have liked to think of himself as the type of pirate who’d redraw his steel and go searching the dark tunnels of the Proving Ground for the naked bastard who had murdered anywhere from eight to ten of his comrades. Kill the legendary fucker or die trying. Cabbage wanted to be that pirate. But somewhere between losing his ears and spending a decade of his life with wet feet, his disposition for seizing the initiative had soured.

  He slammed the hatch shut. And decided to pretend for the rest of his life that he’d never seen it opened.

  49

  BERSHAD

  Ghost Moth Island, the Proving Ground

  Bershad waited in the shadows to see if the pirate whose piss smelled like pure potato liquor would follow him down the hatch. But after looking at the pool of blood for a while—body flooding with the acrid smell of fear and doubt—he closed the hatch. Headed back down the side of the building at a casual pace and dwindling level of concern that made it clear he wasn’t about to raise any alarms.

  “Smart choice,” he muttered.

  When Bershad dropped down into the hatch, he’d found a napping pirate with thick jowls and an upturned nose. Cut his throat. Presently, he took the dead man’s crossbow, crammed his corpse behind the ladder to the roof, and headed deeper into Osyrus Ward’s bunker of horrors. He followed the narrow tunnel for a few dozen paces before finding a place to drop down into a main corridor.

  The place smelled of chemicals and rot. Rust and singed hair. The hallway he dropped into was lined with glass cages, each one with a different dead animal inside. Bershad passed a mantis with front pincers made from copper. A tarantula with wings made from glass and wire.

  Then came the rats. Hundreds of them.

  Some had metal limbs and tails. Others had distended, broken bellies with tiny gears spilling out. Their eyes replaced with red nubs that were connected to acorn-sized lodestones by copper wires.

  The animals were long dead, but they twitched in little increments, making the long hallway itchy with artificial movement that the Gray-Winged Nomad didn’t register. The dichotomy of seeing movement that he couldn’t feel with the dragon’s senses was disorienting and confusing. Gave him a headache.

  * * *

  Bershad descended farther into the stink and the dark. Climbing down decrepit ladders and narrow stairwells. Slinking along more hallways and chambers lined with Ward’s madness. It was easy to avoid the handful of pirates who patrolled the corridors. Most of the assholes were outside, trying to prevent him from getting in.

  A few levels down, Osyrus Ward’s experiments turned to human subjects. Papyrian soldiers, judging from their rotting armor.

  He passed a man with all of his organs cut out of his chest and stowed in putrid jars. The jars were attached to tubes that ran back into the dead man’s chest cavity. Just like the rats, the man was long since dead.

  The farther he descended, the duller his connection to the Nomad became. But it was still strong enough for him to feel two heartbeats itching against his skin as he approached yet another ladder. They were coming from the opposite direction at a brisk walk.

  Not worth a fight. He ducked into one of the experiment nooks—hiding behind a man who had had his entire spine exposed and hundreds of wires attached to the vertebra. They connected to two long slabs of curved dragon bones that looked suspiciously like they were meant to be wings.

  “What’s the fuss?” the first pirate asked. His breath reeked of tobacco and chicken.

  “Simeon’s all fired up about something,” said the other, who was all rum and sausage. “Says we’re under attack.”

  “Military? Been a while since they caught a whiff of us.”

  “Naw. Some naked lunatic, apparently. Killed a bunch of men then ran off into the woods with Ezra’s guts wrapped around his junk.”

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  “That’s what Cabbage said. He’s generally truthful, except when he’s bragging about the value of those fucking tapestries.”

  “You seen the one of Kira Malgrave? Only thing covering her bits is a piece of fruit. And it ain’t a big piece if you know what I mean. One o’ them miniature peaches from the Dainwood that—”

  “I’ve seen it. C’mon. We got our orders. Everyone’s meant to secure the perimeter while Simeon flushes the naked bastard out of the woods.”

  Their voices faded. Bershad waited until they were completely out of range, then continued his descent by climbing down a long series of vertical pipes. They were still giving off warmth, and by the time Bershad reached the bottom, he was gritting his teeth from the pain of burning palms and feet.

  The room at the bottom of the Proving Ground was circular and far more open than the tiny chambers and narrow hallways he’d come through. There was a dome made from black cement in the middle. The dome had a single, circular door made from bronze and locked with a Balarian seal. Bershad could just barely feel a single heartbeat on the far side.

  There was one sentry out front. He smelled like sawdust and cheese and he was picking his ass with one hand, holding his crossbo
w slack in the other.

  Bershad shot him in the face. Came out of the shadows.

  He looked up as he crossed the open space. Above, there was a long pillar that led up through the bowels of the Proving Ground. It seemed as if it had once been an open window to the sky, but the opening had been sealed by a thick metal plate that was attached to dozens of hydraulic pipes.

  The design of the space reminded Bershad of Kasamir’s garden, except the mushrooms and hanging plants were replaced with dark machinery, and the sky was covered, not cleared.

  He searched the man he’d just killed, digging through pockets until he found the round seal. He slipped it into the mechanism. There was a rusty rattle inside the guts of the door, then a pop of retracting tumblers as it opened.

  Felgor was on the other side.

  He was hanging in a cage, arms folded in his lap. The Balarian squinted back at Bershad for a moment before recognizing him.

  “Oh. Hey, Silas. Nice haircut.”

  Felgor produced two small tools from up his sleeve and started messing with the lock on the front of his cage.

  “Are those chicken bones?” Bershad asked.

  “Yep. Almost got this charmed. Just stay there, and I’ll be right with you.”

  “What happened to Ashlyn?”

  “Uh, that’s a real long, weird story. But it ends with her getting dropped into a big pit beneath that cage.” He motioned to a larger, domed cage to his left. “Floor dropped out, then sealed up behind her.”

  Bershad looked down at the floor. He took a breath—did his best to coax the Nomad a little lower, which she stubbornly obliged for a few heartbeats. No good. He couldn’t sense anything beneath this room.

  “I think she’s okay, though,” Felgor continued. “Simeon wants her alive. When he heard you were coming, he dropped her in for safekeeping in case you got down here. Which I guess you managed. Congratulations? They were all skeptical.”

  “How do I open it?” Bershad said, taking a step forward.

  “You can’t. The system is a closed magnetic field with structural pressure from the whole building. Applying the opposite magnetic charge is the only way to open it.”