“You’re just repeating something Ashlyn said, aren’t you?”
“Which means it’s probably correct. And don’t come any closer until I can get out of this cage so I can make sure you don’t trigger a—”
Felgor was interrupted by Bershad stepping on a metal tile. There was a click, then a bolt plugged him in the shoulder. Bershad grunted. Went down on a knee. That triggered a second bolt that fired from somewhere above, pegged him through his right foot, pinning him in place.
“Pressure trap,” Felgor finished. “This room’s riddled with ’em.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Bershad hissed through gritted teeth.
“I was getting to it. You kept asking other questions.”
Bershad tried to yank the bolt out of his foot, but with all the blood, his hand kept slipping.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, trying again and failing again.
“Just hold tight,” Felgor said. “I squirreled away a little—”
“Quiet,” Bershad hissed, turning back toward the door to the hatch. Three heartbeats were moving toward them with a purpose. “People coming. Three of ’em.”
“Might be you wanna hide?”
Bershad looked at the distance between him and the nearest shadow. Judged it against the speed of the three men, plus the fact there was a bolt through his foot.
“No time.”
He ripped the bolt out of his shoulder and snapped it in half. Got onto his belly, hiding the bolt tip underneath him. He wedged the shaft and fletching between two fingers, then held it against the back of his head, making it look like the rest of the bolt was buried six inches through his skull, not clutched in his other fist. He settled down into a pool of his own blood.
“Ah. Playing dead. Good strategy.”
A moment later, the thump of boots pounding onto the metal floor sounded from outside.
“Echo’s dead,” one man said.
“Solid fucking observation, Gill.”
“Workshop door’s open, too.”
“You can’t rightfully trigger the dome’s seventh pressure plate without going inside the dome first, can you?”
“I dunno, Howell. Maybe the Balarian that Simeon hates so much sprung his cage.”
“Let’s find out.”
They both approached, cautious and slow. Bershad took a deep breath in. Held it.
“Hey guys!” Felgor called cheerfully. “Some idiot broke in and got himself killed.”
“Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll put a bolt through it,” Gill hissed.
“Rude.”
There was a silence while they scanned the room.
“Fuck. Is that him?” Gill asked.
“Seems so,” Howell responded.
“But I thought Simeon was rooting him out of the woods?”
“Either there are two naked men all mucked up in night tar with a mind for violence tonight, or the asshole slipped through.”
“Pretty clever.”
“Man’s got a bolt in the back of his head. So, he’s not that clever.”
They both approached.
“Give the clever bastard another bolt for good measure,” Howell said.
“Aye.”
Bershad stayed still as he heard Gill lifting his crossbow. Stayed still as the pirate’s fish-crusted fingers pressed against the trigger.
But just as Gill pulled the trigger, Bershad jerked his head to the right.
The bolt shattered on the ground. Shrapnel sprayed into Bershad’s face and punctured his neck.
“Fuck!” Gill shouted. “He’s still alive.”
Bershad rolled onto his back—tearing his foot free in the process—and threw the tip of the bolt at Gill, catching him in the mouth and sending him stumbling backward. Bershad shot up and tackled Gill. Ripped the bolt out of the pirate’s cheek and rammed it through his throat.
Before he could pull it out, Howell was on him with a spear thrust. Bershad dodged. Backed up. Drew his knife from its fishing-line sheath. Howell had that dragon-scale shield tucked up in a tight guard. Spear ready to lash out with a thrust if Bershad got closer.
“I remember you from the river,” Bershad growled, pressing one hand against his neck to stanch the bleeding from the bolt shrapnel.
“Aye.” Howell studied him. “Simeon wanted you for himself. He’ll be pissed when he finds out I’m the one who crammed the shell in your mouth.”
“Careful. I’m not dead yet.”
“No. But you’re approaching at speed. All I gotta do is wait a few ticks while you bleed out on your feet.”
That wasn’t wrong. And it gave Bershad an idea.
He wavered. Dropped to his knees. Let his head wobble.
“Coward,” he muttered.
Howell didn’t respond, but he lowered his shield enough for Bershad to get a look at his smiling mouth full of gold teeth.
Bershad whipped his fishing knife through the air. Split Howell’s face from nose to chin. He crumpled to the floor.
“Shit, Silas,” said Felgor. “That was a good throw.”
“Yeah.” Bershad turned to him. He was woozy. Vision blurry. He stumbled and fell over. “Need some … need some help.”
“Fear not,” Felgor said, resuming his work picking the lock of his cage. “I’m on the cusp.”
“No … time for bone picks,” Bershad said. “Where’s the key?”
“There’s always time for greatness,” Felgor said. “Just need to…”
Something clicked.
“Yes. Yes, and then here…”
Another click.
“Last one…” Felgor squinted and stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he slipped the bone deep into the slot. Twisted. The lock rumbled with clanks and metal ticks, then the entire thing spun once and opened like a flower blooming in spring.
“Victory!” Felgor shouted, hopping down from the cage. “You’re a witness!” he said, pointing at Bershad. “The legendary Felgor does it again! Picked a Balarian seal with a fucking chicken bone. Someone’s gonna write a song about this. I can feel it.”
“Felgor,” Bershad gurgled, mouth filling with blood from his throat wound. “Help.”
“Right, right,” Felgor said, shuffling over to Bershad on an irregular path. “Ashlyn kept a close watch on me nicking the Gods Moss, but I did pinch some Crimson Tower nuggets a while back.” He crouched down. Produced three vials of bright red moss from somewhere in his coat. “Just try not to choke on your own blood before I can sort you out.”
He started filling Bershad’s various wounds with the moss.
“I don’t even know why I stole these,” he said while he worked. “Not like there’s anyone to sell them to. I’d like to take credit for the foresight, but that’s hot air. Mostly it’s just a compulsion at this point. I can’t help myself. Like the saps who can’t get outta bed without a pint of juniper liquor. Except my booze is thievery. And gods, it is strong stuff.”
Twenty minutes later, Felgor had packed the worst of his wounds with the moss, then wrapped them in strips of the dead men’s clothes. Bershad could feel the burning warmth of his body healing, but it was going slow.
“How do we get to Ashlyn?” Bershad asked.
“Yeah, so there’s a bit of an issue on that front. Far as I can tell, the only thing that can get that floor to open again is Simeon’s right gauntlet. That’s what he used to drop her in there.”
“Great,” Bershad muttered. Then checked the wound in his throat. It was still bleeding on the outside, but it had sealed internally. “Well, let’s go find him.”
“You sure you’re up for that? You’re looking pretty raw.”
“I’m fine.”
“You got blood coming out of a dozen places.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Bershad took a breath. Focused his senses again. Still nothing coming from below—not even a rat. Something was blocking the Nomad’s reach. But when he looked up at the ceiling he could feel the vague siz
zle of the pirates overhead—they weren’t clustered around the front entrance anymore, but had instead started running varied patrols along the different levels. Must have dawned on them that he wasn’t back in those woods after all.
“So what’s the plan?” Felgor asked.
The sun would be up in less than an hour. Whatever they were going to do, it needed to happen fast. But Bershad had an idea.
“First, we need to get you to a boat.”
Bershad picked up Gill’s crossbow. Slung it over his shoulder, wincing at the pain the strap put on one of his many wounds. He picked up the dragon-bone shield and situated it on his off hand. Gave the spear a few practice thrusts.
Good balance. Better than his old dagger.
“Stay exactly two paces behind me at all times,” Bershad said, heading for the open door. “Stop when I stop, move when I move.”
“So, your plan doesn’t involve putting on pants?”
“No.”
“Could we maybe restrategize so that it does?”
“Just follow me, Felgor.”
50
ASHLYN
Ghost Moth Island, Beneath the Proving Ground
After several turns, the roughly carved tunnel ended at a gray metal door. No lock. Just a circular latch. Ashlyn pulled it open without hesitating. Inside, there was a spherical room illuminated by the sallow pulse of chemically activated dragon threads. They were embedded in the walls like the blood vessels of an egg. There was another workstation next to the door. An array of clean surgical tools were arranged in a line. Sealskin gloves next to them. Unlike the rest of the Proving Ground, there was no rust or plant growth in here. It had stayed pristine for all this time.
Well, pristine was perhaps the wrong word. There were ten men suspended from the ceiling by steel cords.
They all had a heavy mechanical apparatus attached to their backs, with two glass orbs over each shoulder that were blackened by burned dragon-oil residue. The first hanging man’s body was undamaged, but his skin had a strange, gray pallor. The same color as a pill bug.
The others had assorted injuries. Blown-open kneecaps. Cracked teeth. Distorted and broken necks. One of them was cut in half just below his ribs. Metal tubes and wires hung from his chest cavity. Dozens of acorn-sized lodestones were implanted along his exposed spine. There was no sign of his legs.
There was also one empty place on the ceiling. Empty hooks.
“Ten men,” Ashlyn muttered. “Gaya came with eleven.”
It took her a moment to understand. After Osyrus left, Kasamir had come down here and taken one of the Papyrian soldiers for himself. Reanimated his corpse with Cordata mushrooms and used him as a personal automaton and bodyguard.
“Specimen 9009,” Ashlyn said to herself, remembering what Kasamir had called the mushroom giant.
Ashlyn stepped beneath the bisected hanging man so she could see into his rib cage. His heart was visible and intact. She frowned, wondering why it hadn’t gone to rot after thirty years in his chest. Then she saw something that didn’t make sense.
The left ventricle was connected to the spinal column by a pipe.
Ashlyn went back to the workstation. Put on the gloves and grabbed a scalpel. She stood on her toes to reach the heart and carefully unscrewed it from the spine. It was heavier than a heart should be. Denser.
She took it back to the workstation and cut it open.
The heart was encased in natural human tissue and blood vessels, but beneath the layer of organic matter there was a wire mesh that gave the organ its shape. The muscle underneath the mesh was wrong—light gray, not pink. The texture a little too smooth. Ashlyn cut the mesh and muscle apart to find scores of lodestones the size of river pebbles embedded in the gray meat. When she tapped one of the lodestones with the scalpel, a little surge of current moved from her wrist to the lodestone, and then the entire heart gave a shuddering pump—attempting to push blood through an empty ventricle.
Osyrus Ward hadn’t altered these men’s organs. He had created replacements.
Ashlyn couldn’t fathom how he’d accomplished such a thing. But there was a small heap of stained papers behind the men. She ducked beneath the hanging corpses and started reading.
12 Credo—223
Breakthrough. The Seed’s fluid can be manipulated to grow artificial tissue around a lattice framework. The tissue requires a power source, but no sustenance to remain healthy. It is a closed system. Moreover, the fluid also prompts normative human tissue to bind with the machinery and artificial organs, which I previously assumed to be impossible.
This is what I needed. Beginning trials tomorrow morning.
Beneath that note, there were dozens of pages of diagrams and chemical equations illustrating how Osyrus grew the organs around a mesh framework and planned to embed them into human bodies. Ashlyn kept sifting until she found the results.
28 Lomas—224
Failure. All specimens perished within seventeen days of procedure due to various complications. Blood loss. Shock. Filtration system clogs. Power surges from the apparatus. But this is a failure of implementation and mechanism, not principle. Specimens accepted their organs without sign of infection, and achieved full corporeal function from them. The organs required no food or water to sustain themselves, and the specimens retained full mental faculties.
This is the baseline. The skeleton upon which I will build my creations.
Myriad improvements to the filtration and power systems required. Modules burn 2.9 pints of dragon oil per day. Not sustainable. Size and weight of the apparatus also severe hindrance. Two specimens exploded their kneecaps when ordered to walk. Must make everything more efficient.
Designed a theoretical system that is fueled by a symbiosis of dragon tissue, human flesh, and lodestone fields. This would be perfect, but a far stronger elemental charge from the dragon tissue is required to make the system viable. At current levels, the damn things are just glorified lanterns. For now, a dragon-oil engine is the only path forward.
A curious side effect: specimens developed a gray pallor to the skin after the procedure. Odd, and likely preventable. But perhaps I shall adopt it as my maker’s mark. A signature upon my Acolytes.
Ashlyn frowned. Turned to the schematic he referenced.
Osyrus was right—his proposed design wouldn’t function without tissue that was four or five times stronger than his chemically activated threads. But if the rest of his discoveries were true, the weakness of his persistent charge was the only thing preventing Osyrus Ward from creating a functionally immortal person.
Ashlyn looked at the hanging men—their limbs blown out and broken. Faces contorted in pain. She remembered all the sadistic things that she’d seen on the island already. If this was the cost of immortality, it was too high. Moreover, Osyrus Ward’s thesis was flawed: these organs and creations might not need food or water to function, but the process relied on extremely rare natural resources—lodestones, this Seed fluid, and dragon threads. Ward could never transform Terra into a place free from suffering and death and decay. Not without drastically altering the environment or killing the vast majority of Terra’s people.
But once she had that thought, she realized that Osyrus Ward would not see either requirement as a serious obstacle.
She stopped herself from spinning farther down that rabbit hole. Regardless of immortality’s moral and practical implications on Terra, she was still stuck in this pit and needed a way out.
Beneath the schematic, there were a few more pages of Osyrus’s final notes. She dug through, hoping for something she could use.
1 Noctar—225
Used all available seed fluid harvested from 88. Attempted to bloom Specimen 01, but failed, despite considerable and prolonged disruption to his body. Most likely explanation is twenty years attached to the preservation loop. Whatever the cause, his frail body now is weaker than Papyrian wine, and useless to me.
To continue, I require more materials than this island
can offer. It is time to leave.
Priority One. Faster method of travel. If each dragon warren in Terra contains 8 pints of fluid, I have many long journeys ahead of me before I can build my next set of organs. Flight, I think. My filtration and power systems for the organs can be retrofitted into a combustion engine. The lightweight strength of dragon bone and hide is also a distinct engineering advantage. Will build a prototype here and use it to leave the island.
Priority Two. Access to unbloomed Seeds. I must find a method that takes them to the cusp of transformation and holds them there, so they might produce the fluid in larger amounts. I cannot create a better world in 8-pint increments. This will likely take decades, given the rarity of Seeds and difficulty in identifying them. An inconvenience, but not an impossible obstacle.
Priority Three. A place to work that is rich in resources. Balaria’s capital is ideal. They have the quarries and kiln refineries I will need to build an apparatus that delays the bloom. The machine will be massive—an eternally spinning gear that can be seen for leagues. But I can always dress it up as something else. A source of power and industry. Not even a lie. Just an incomplete truth.
In addition, Balarian obsession with Clock God suggests a more receptive outlook to my work than the Papyrian empress. Religion is a powerful tool for manipulation of the masses. But have learned from mistakes with Okinu. Must make myself invaluable to Balarian emperor. Will ply him with simple machines and methods of control, but withhold full extent of inventions and my true purpose until the proper time. Until there is nothing anyone can do to stop me.
The final note was dated thirty-one years ago. Seven months before Balaria closed their borders to outlanders.
15 Crima—230
Skyship prototype complete. Engine relies on lizard oil for fuel. A crude application. But the Ghost Moth spinal tissue requires advances before viability. Stored all unrefined strands on the ship for future trials, pending advances.
Left Specimen 01 alive. Sentimental of me, perhaps. But he always wanted to live forever. No reason for me to stop him. Curious what he will do with the island when I leave. Bemoan his suffering as always, or free himself? I left him the tools, should he prove industrious.
Sorcery of a Queen Page 45
