Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  Bershad figured it was best to wait. Word would be passed down from wagon to wagon until it reached a sentry, and then a few of them would come riding up to kill him. Unless, of course, the king had been gracious enough to let his wardens know he was coming. Bershad doubted that. King Hertzog was an old, stubborn man who did not forget grudges. And he held a large grudge against Bershad.

  While they waited, a few of the nearby peasants built mud statues and muttered prayers, but mostly they just stared at him. As expected, a group of Malgrave wardens rode from the main gate a few minutes later. Bershad counted twenty of them, which was a bit of overkill to deal with one wayward dragonslayer. Rowan dropped the salted pork he’d been eating and moved to Bershad’s left. The bystanders backed away, allowing the wardens to surround and level spears at Bershad’s and Rowan’s throats. All of them wore eagle masks to show that they were sworn to the Malgraves.

  A high-warden cleared a path for himself through the circle of mounted soldiers. His eagle mask had a bright orange slash of color running down the middle of the beak that made him stand out from the group. He wore a dark green cloak and his mask had a mane of blue horsehair attached to the back—as befitted his rank.

  “Did you get lost, dragonslayer?” he said, as if this happened to him every morning and he had grown accustomed to the occurrence.

  “I’m here on orders from the king,” Bershad said.

  “Funny, so am I. Except he says I’m to kill any dragonslayers I see. What am I to make of this discrepancy?”

  Bershad knew his type—educated and highborn, but not very important. He was probably the third or fourth son of a small lord and was being groomed for a high-ranking station in the king’s army so he’d be useful to the family when his older brother came into his inheritance.

  “We have a letter, signed and everything,” Bershad said. “If your men promise not to kill me when I move, I’ll retrieve it from my pocket.”

  The high-warden nodded. “They promise.”

  Bershad pulled the king’s letter from his inner breast pocket and tossed it up to the high-warden, who caught it deftly with one hand, keeping his other on the hilt of his sword. A good soldier, Bershad thought. Never letting his guard down. The high-warden read the note, checked the seal in the light of the sun, and then nodded at his men, who lifted their spears toward the sky in unison.

  “Eaolin, Shermon. Get off your horses.” The high-warden removed his mask and hooked it to his hip. He was young for an officer—bright blue eyes and an aquiline nose. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Bershad.” He smiled. “We best head inside the city. Bad policy to keep the king waiting.”

  * * *

  As they rode toward Floodhaven, the high-warden kept pace next to Bershad.

  “I apologize for not recognizing you,” he said.

  “We know each other?”

  “My name is Carlyle Llayawin.”

  Bershad had been right—Llayawin was an old but minor house of the Dainwood rain forest.

  “My father served your father for many years,” Carlyle continued. “And I was in the crowd when you rode for Glenlock Canyon with your army. I am sorry for the way things ended for your family.”

  A lord from the Atlas Coast would never talk to Bershad with such empathy—the king’s ire toward Bershad was their ire. But men of the Dainwood were more independent. Bershad appreciated that.

  “How has house Llayawin found the new leadership?” Bershad asked. “I understand Elden Grealor has a different way of running things.”

  “Different is the word,” Carlyle agreed. “Lord Grealor has no respect for the forest. He’s built lumber mills all over the Dainwood and gotten rich off the industry. Dainwood lumber is worth a fortune, seeing as nobody had a chance to buy it until recently.” Carlyle paused. “Apologies. It must hurt to be reminded of your homeland.”

  “The Dainwood isn’t my home anymore,” Bershad said. “I don’t give a shit what Grealor does with it.”

  Sometimes Bershad almost believed that lie himself.

  “All the same, it’s not right.” Carlyle grimaced. “That’s why I took my men and came up here. Swore my sword to Princess Ashlyn Malgrave.”

  The mention of Ashlyn’s name turned Bershad’s mouth dry. On their trip south, he’d tried to avoid getting mired in daydreams about seeing her again. He hadn’t been successful.

  “You didn’t swear to the king?”

  “Technically, I’m the king’s man, of course. But Hertzog Malgrave didn’t have much love for five hundred Deepdale wardens looking for a new master. He kicked us over to Ashlyn to work the city’s defenses. There isn’t much glory in the life of a watchman, but being honest, I’m glad for it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve had my fill of raids and skirmishes, and the king still runs plenty of those. Need to keep the high lords in line, and all that. No, guarding a wall and sleeping in a real bed each night suits me just fine. And I know that Ashlyn Malgrave won’t go ordering me to chop down a forest anytime soon.”

  “No,” Bershad said, swallowing. “She won’t.”

  They rode down a large avenue toward the castle. Smaller roads and alleyways darted in and out of sight to their left and right—packed with carts, people, and doorways into different shops.

  Castle Malgrave rose in the distance. It was an ancient fortress—the foundations built upon the highest point in the area centuries ago. The granite walls stood eighty strides tall. Beyond them, four tall spires poked into the sky. The two shorter towers stretched to an even height, four times as high as the city walls. The tops of those towers used to be archers’ nests, but had long since been converted to plush chambers for visiting lords and royalty. The upper rooms of one tower were blackened and damaged on the western side. Bershad squinted, trying to make out the details. The masonry was saggy and deformed. It looked more like melted wax than solid rock.

  “What happened up there?” Bershad asked, pointing.

  “Fire,” Carlyle said.

  “Never seen a castle fire melt the castle.”

  “Neither have I. But fire is the story we high-wardens of the lower levels were told.” Carlyle shrugged. “Happened two moons ago while the Balarian envoy was here.”

  “Did you see it?” Bershad asked.

  “Sure.” Carlyle nodded. “There was a pop in the middle of the night—like a lightning strike, although I remember the sky being clear. When I came out into the courtyard to get a look, the whole side of that tower was engulfed in flames. They looked queer, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Wrong color.” He glanced up at the burned tower then back at Bershad. “I’ve seen plenty of holdfasts burn in my time. Gods, I’ve done the burning myself on occasion. The flames flicker out the windows, orange and yellow, same as a bonfire. But these were blue. All blue. And they weren’t flickering out the windows. The stones themselves were doing the burning—turned white with heat in seconds. But it didn’t last very long. Five, ten minutes at most. I was heading up to make sure everything was contained, but Princess Ashlyn turned me away.”

  “Ashlyn was in the tower when the fire happened?”

  “Of course,” Carlyle said, pointing to the third tower, which was half again as tall as the two smaller spires. “She’s been using the Queen’s Tower as her offices and personal chambers for years now, but she was working on something in that smaller tower the last few months. Before the fire.” Carlyle paused. “Nobody knew what she was doing, exactly. Just rumors. Like I said, Ashlyn’s a different breed of highborn.”

  Bershad had heard those rumors. Stories of Ashlyn Malgrave staying awake late into the night, using dragon organs to brew Papyrian potions in a massive cauldron that could change the weather and curse men’s manhood. He also knew that was all dragonshit.

  “The Floodhaven court always loved its gossip,” Bershad said.

  Carlyle smiled. “That is a fact.”

  Most Almirans never traveled mor
e than a day’s walk from the hut or shack in which they were born. They spent their days working a field and their nights worshipping gods that ruled the forest beyond their back fence. The isolation made them superstitious. Anything they didn’t understand was demoncraft. And so much about Ashlyn was inscrutable to castle stewards, turnip farmers, and everyone in between. If she didn’t have veins full of royal blood, the people would have named her a demon-worshipping witch, formed a mob, and burned her alive years ago.

  “Anyway,” Carlyle continued, turning them onto a wide avenue. “Not much sense worrying about burned-out towers when we’re heading for this other one, up here.”

  He pointed to the fourth tower, which stood in the center and rose well beyond the other three. The tallest structure in Almira. Inside the tower, there were chambers, dining halls, granaries, kitchens, baths, armories. And Hertzog Malgrave, king of Almira.

  “Yeah,” Bershad said, pushing down his thoughts of Ashlyn. He needed to focus.

  Carlyle led them through the main gate of Castle Malgrave, beneath yet another portcullis that was kept open for daily traffic into the fortress. On the other side there was a large courtyard, which was full of high-end merchant stalls set up for the courtesans. The carts sold rich spices from distant lands, casks of wine, and expensive gemstones destined for highborn mud totems.

  Carlyle dismounted gracefully, with Bershad and Rowan following suit. Stable boys dressed in silk tunics appeared and led their horses away. The double door to the castle was ten feet tall, made from ancient Almiran oak and covered with sprawled carvings of gods’ faces.

  Three masked Malgrave wardens stood on either side of the door—their blue-and-black enameled armor reflected the sun. A steward sat at an ornate desk to the side of the door, scratching furious notes into a ledger. He was a gangly man, with gray thinning hair and deep, ravine-like frown lines cut into his cheeks and forehead.

  “Your business in Castle Malgrave?” he asked as they approached, not looking up from his work.

  “I present Silas Bershad, exiled dragonslayer, and his forsaken shield, Rowan. They are answering a summons from the king,” Carlyle said, his voice stiff and formal.

  The steward’s quill froze. His eyes shot up to Bershad.

  “Do you possess this summons?” he asked.

  Carlyle produced the note from a pouch on his sword belt and handed it to the steward, who dotted the seal of the king in three places as he read.

  “May I see your mark, dragonslayer?” the steward asked, still looking at the summons.

  Bershad removed the glove on his right hand and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a blue sprawl of intricate tattoos that extended along the entire length of his forearm. The base of the tattoo—closest to his wrist—had been given to him at the same time they put the blue bars on his face. The symbols were ancient Almiran glyphs. They denoted his former rank along with his crimes and the reasons for his exile. The steward began to read them aloud.

  “Son of the traitor, Leon Bershad. Former heir to Deepdale and the Dainwood province. Once betrothed to Princess Ashlyn Malgrave. Former commander of the Jaguar Army. Vicious temperament. Given to passion and bloodlust. Exiled for ordering and leading the massacre of Glenlock Canyon.”

  Those marks only covered the first few inches of Bershad’s arm. Above that, the slayings began. Sixty-five dragons in the midst of their death throes twisted along Bershad’s flesh—each one drawn by a different artist. A patchwork chronicle of impossible feats.

  Almost all of the dragons had been killed with an ash spear through their mouth or eye. Flawless and clean. The only outlier was a Yellow-Spined Greezel etched on the middle of his bicep that Bershad had decapitated with his dragontooth dagger. The dragon had been a runt, but it was still a terrible fight—like wrestling a rabid boar armored with porcupine spikes. The poison from those barbs had given Bershad hallucinations for an entire week after it was done. When he came to his senses, they’d moved on to another province and he was famous for being the only man to behead a dragon, even if it was a runt.

  Carlyle whistled at the sight of the tattoos. No other dragonslayer in the world had an arm like that. Most wound up with a seashell in their mouth on their first pass and never earned a single tattoo. The lucky ones managed two or three on their forearm.

  But Bershad’s tattoos snaked up to his shoulder, then poured across his chest and back.

  If the steward was impressed, he hid it well—pulling Bershad’s arm closer to his face and examining a few of the dragons. He moved to dot Bershad’s skin with his quill several times, but stopped himself.

  Satisfied, the steward released his arm and jotted down several notes in his ledger.

  “I need another one added while I’m here,” Bershad said.

  “Your tattoo can wait. King Hertzog will not.” The steward looked up from his ledger and frowned at Bershad. “You are filthy. I will send for wash-girls to clean you before you are presented to the king. Your forsaken shield will be given quarters in the servants’ basement. High-Warden Carlyle”—he gave Carlyle the perfunctory glance that only stewards seem capable of, regardless of whom they are talking to—“that will be all.”

  If Carlyle was offended by the steward’s curt dismissal, he didn’t show it. He turned to Bershad. “It was an honor to see you again, my lord.” The steward grunted at Carlyle’s taboo use of Bershad’s old title, but said nothing. “I hope our paths will one day cross again. Until then, I’ll be on the walls.”

  Carlyle smiled, then strode off toward the stable, cinching his eagle mask back into place. The steward had already turned to the next person waiting to gain entrance to Castle Malgrave.

  Bershad stopped Rowan before they parted ways.

  “Keep your boots on while you’re in the castle, Rowan. You catch even a whisper of drawn steel, take Alfonso and get him out of Floodhaven. Don’t wait for me.”

  Rowan frowned. “Don’t do anything stupid, Silas. He’s the king.”

  “He’s also the bastard that murdered my father and put these bars on my face. I’m not just gonna give a bow and kiss his hand.” Bershad leaned closer. Tightened his grip on Rowan’s shoulder. “We’ve made it a long way together, but there’s no reason for you to follow me down the river if it comes to that. Promise me you’ll run.”

  Rowan swallowed. Gave Bershad a long look.

  “I promise.”

  Bershad clapped Rowan on the shoulder.

  “Good. And don’t worry so much. I’ll try my best not to die.”

  * * *

  Two female servants took Bershad to a chamber in the second tower. Judging from their hay-colored hair and pale skin, they were Lysterian—a frigid country on the far side of the Soul Sea. Bershad’s longevity as a dragonslayer had made him famous across the realm of Terra, but in Hertzog Malgrave’s castle, treating him with even a shred of respect was bound to earn a servant a score of lashes. Bershad figured the Almiran servants had pawned his clean up duty off on the foreigners in an effort to keep their backs unmarred.

  The Lysterians put him into a steaming tub of hot water sprinkled with salts and lavender. Bershad submerged himself once and turned the water black. Dismayed, the girls drained the water and poured a fresh bath, sprinkling a larger portion of salts and herbs this time.

  One girl toiled with the knots and rings in Bershad’s hair while the other scrubbed his arms, chest, and back with a brush—removing dried scabs, mud, and dirt. She took special care around his leg wound. The scab had fallen off, leaving a light pink circle that would turn into a raised and gnarled mark. One more scar added to the mess.

  When they were done scrubbing, one girl trimmed Bershad’s beard while the other rubbed scented oil into his skin, moving her hands over the deep scars and marred flesh that covered his body. The girls whispered to each other in Lysterian while they worked.

  “What’s the big secret?” he asked.

  The girl who’d been trimming his beard cleared her throat and spoke i
n a thick accent.

  “Faye is confused by your name. You are called flawless, but carry so many marks upon your skin. These are the most she has seen on a man.”

  “Yeah, the stories tend to skip that part.”

  “Pardon?”

  Bershad sighed. He didn’t feel like explaining his name.

  “I’m as clean as I’m going to get. Can you bring me a set of clothes?”

  “Right away,” said the serving girl.

  They brought him clean clothes: pants, tunic, and jacket. All of it black with green trim. The jacket had a set of ivory buttons that Bershad couldn’t figure out how to work.

  “The fuck are these for?” he muttered to himself.

  One of the serving girls smiled and helped him. She crossed the double-breasted jacket and hooked the buttons so they ran up the left side of his chest and closed his collar. It was the finest set of clothes Bershad had worn in fourteen years. He hated them. But when he moved to unbutton the collar the girl slapped his hand away.

  “If you’re seeing the king, the collar stays buttoned,” she said firmly.

  “You’re the boss.”

  While the Lysterians packed up their supplies, Bershad scanned the room for a weapon of some kind. An errant razor or scissor. Even a comb could kill a king. But there was nothing within reach. Not a real setback. Hertzog Malgrave had thrust a miserable life of wandering and killing around his neck. Bershad didn’t have a problem murdering him with his bare hands. Just thinking about watching the life drain out of Hertzog’s eyes filled Bershad’s mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline and rage. His fingers twitched from the tension flooding his bloodstream.

  A nervous and talkative serving boy came to fetch him.

  “King Hertzog was just starting to eat his supper in Alior Hall when I brought news of your arrival. He said to get you right away,” the boy said. “I asked if the king would like to see you when he had finished his dinner, and he threw a dish of gravy at me. You can see the stain.” The boy pointed. “In any case, we’d best hurry.”