Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  He led Bershad through the castle until they reached a set of double-oak doors. This one had an eagle-faced god with enormous wings carved into the wood.

  “Ready?” the boy asked.

  “Yeah,” Bershad said. He tugged on his collar, which pulled one of the buttons free.

  “Here, let me fix that.”

  The boy stood on his toes and adjusted the collar.

  “I should warn you, there are a lot of wardens in there with their swords drawn,” he whispered. “And the king seems very angry. I thought, if you wanted, you could have my seashell. Just in case … you know.” The squire removed a bone-white clamshell from his pocket and offered it to Bershad. “It would be the greatest honor of my life to help the Flawless Bershad’s soul find the sea.”

  Bershad couldn’t help but smile. The boy would be whipped senseless if anyone found out he’d made that offer.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Dennys, my lord.”

  “Best keep the shell for yourself, Dennys. The sea isn’t that far from here. I’ll find it.”

  Dennys gave a serious nod, then opened the door.

  Alior Hall was one of the smallest audience chambers in the King’s Tower, named after an unpopular monarch who nearly bankrupted the nation and lost a war to the jungle nations south of the Dainwood. The king was eating dinner alone at the far end of the hall. Malgrave wardens ringed the walls, each of them wearing full armor and standing at attention with their swords drawn.

  As soon as Bershad stepped into the room, a warden appeared from the left, shoved him back a pace, and carried out a violent body search. It was lucky Bershad hadn’t been able to sneak a weapon up his sleeve after all.

  “He’s unarmed, my king,” the warden said. Then he looked at Bershad. “But if he gets too close, he’s a dead man.”

  With that, the warden nodded to Dennys, who scrambled in front of Bershad and led the way across the room.

  “My king,” he said, bowing low. “May I present to you the Flaw—I mean, that is to say, the dragonslayer is here.”

  King Hertzog stopped eating and steepled his hands together in front of his face, obscuring most of his features. There was a bearskin cloak slung over his shoulders, but the king still looked cold.

  “Took your time getting here, exile.”

  Bershad counted the wardens—twenty-five. Checked the room for other exits, but didn’t see any.

  He shrugged. “My donkey’s getting a little old to walk a full day. We took breaks.”

  The king glared at Bershad for a moment, then went back to eating his food. He pulled the wing off a crispy game hen and took a greasy bite. Bershad remembered Hertzog as a warrior king—more comfortable sitting atop a horse in a set of armor than warming a throne in an expensive robe. But the years had brought decay. He was old and bent where he used to be straight and strong. His once black hair had turned silver and thin. Still, his body had always been built for violence. Even now his broad shoulders took up the space of two normal men.

  The king went for another bite of chicken, stalling to show he was in charge.

  “What do you want, Hertzog?” Bershad asked.

  Dennys gasped at the disrespect. Bershad didn’t care. He’d had no patience for castle etiquette when he was eighteen, and the years of exile hadn’t improved his tolerance for royal cock-jerking.

  King Hertzog tried to ignore the insolence, but his face twitched. He sucked a piece of chicken from between his teeth and dropped the wing.

  “There’s work for you on the far side of Terra,” the king said, his voice full of phlegm.

  So, it was just another dragon. Some foreign lord had probably begged Hertzog to send his famous dragonslayer in exchange for a favorable tax break on imported goods. It had happened before, although Hertzog hadn’t made the request personally. That was new.

  “Where?” Bershad asked. “What breed?”

  The king sipped from a ceramic goblet.

  “Get out of here, boy,” he said quietly, then shot Dennys a look.

  The squire ran out of the room as if Hertzog had threatened him with a crossbow. The door slammed behind him.

  Hertzog coughed from deep within his lungs, then washed it away with a longer gulp of wine. He wiped his mouth with a cloth-of-gold napkin and tossed it on top of his half-eaten meal.

  “How are you still alive?” he asked.

  Bershad shrugged. “Turns out killing lizards isn’t as hard as people make it out to be.”

  “Sarcasm won’t serve you well in this conversation,” Hertzog said.

  “I’m not sure what this conversation is about, yet. It seems a little more complicated than some foreign dragonslaying writ.”

  Hertzog stared at Bershad for several moments, then motioned to the warden standing behind him.

  “I have a gift for you, exile.”

  The warden picked up a rectangular box made from lacquered oak that was propped against the wall. Placed it by Bershad’s feet, then backed away.

  Bershad stared at it. “That full of vipers or something?”

  “Open the fucking box.”

  Bershad hesitated a moment, then bent down and unlatched the clasps. His old sword, which had been taken from him the day he was exiled, was inside. It was neither an Almiran nor Papyrian design, but lost somewhere in the middle. Ashlyn used to tease him for having the same taste in swords and women.

  Unlike the double-edged and straight swords favored by wardens, this blade was single-edged and slightly curved. Thinner than an Almiran broadsword—three fingers wide at the collar instead of the usual six—but far longer than a typical Papyrian blade. The grip added another foot to the sword’s length, so it could be wielded with one or two hands. It was wrapped in sharkskin leather for a better grip and capped at the butt with a plain steel bobble that could crack a skull. The black scabbard was made from leather and Papyrian cedar.

  “You check me for hidden weapons, then give me a sword?” Bershad asked.

  Hertzog shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  Bershad picked it up and drew the sword a few inches. Tested the edge. Slipping his fingers around the familiar grip felt like putting on an old, favorite pair of boots he’d thought were lost forever. Except instead of comfort, touching the sword filled Bershad’s body with wrath.

  “The cellar I threw it in flooded a few years back,” Hertzog said. “There’ll be some rust.”

  Bile rose in Bershad’s throat. His vision went blurry at the edges. He couldn’t think straight, all he could do was imagine sprinting forward and ramming the length of rusty steel through Hertzog’s heart. He was about to do exactly that, but the king’s face stopped him.

  Hertzog was smiling. Face glowing with an expression of extreme satisfaction.

  The king was baiting him. Had to be. Bershad scanned the wardens again and noticed that five of them had crossbows tucked behind their backs, loaded and ready to fire. Bershad hadn’t survived this long just to get himself killed over a lost temper. He forced down the fury that threatened to burst out of him. Squeezed the sword’s grip until one of his knuckles cracked, then shoved the blade back into its sheath.

  “Why are you giving me this?” Bershad hissed through clenched teeth.

  Hertzog’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Because I want you to kill the emperor of Balaria with it.”

  Bershad frowned. After Balaria tried and failed to invade Almira, they closed their borders. In the last thirty years, no Almiran had cleared their legendary customs, let alone entered their capital—Burz-al-dun.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking? Do this for me, and the Crown will lift your exile,” Hertzog said.

  That was an unprecedented proposition. An exile was permanent, just like the tattoos.

  “Why are you so desperate to see the emperor dead?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Yes.”

  Bershad had learned from ex
perience that every offer from King Hertzog came with strings, some of which could be tied around your throat and pulled.

  Hertzog coughed, then swallowed with effort. “Do you know what occupies the minds of dying old men?”

  “Not personally, no. As you can see I’m still full of youthful joy and vigor.”

  “Family,” Hertzog said. “And the emperor of Balaria stole half of mine.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Their period of isolation has ended. The emperor himself came to Floodhaven to negotiate a trade agreement two months ago. But when he left, he took my daughter with him.”

  Bershad’s stomach tensed. “Ashlyn?”

  Hertzog’s face twitched. “No. It was Princess Kira.”

  Kira was Ashlyn’s younger sister.

  “Kidnapped?”

  “She’s a fifteen-year-old girl, what else would have happened? Those clock-worshipping bastards failed to conquer my country, so now they’ve stolen my daughter instead. I won’t allow it!” Hertzog slammed his fist onto the table, then looked down at his scarred hand. His voice softened. “A man protects his family, or he is not a man at all.”

  Bershad glanced at the wardens in the room, curious how they’d react to such a vulnerable display from their king. Their faces remained stoic. The king had probably chosen the men in the room carefully—your average soldier couldn’t carry a secret like this down a short hallway.

  “Guess you fucked up pretty bad, then.”

  Hertzog straightened up. His face darkened.

  “You will get Kira back,” he growled, all the vulnerability drained from his voice. “Then you will kill Emperor Mercer Domitian.”

  Bershad shifted the sword in his hands a little, trying to remind himself of the balance. Once he drew the blade, he’d have to move fast. But the offer to end his exile wasn’t something he could completely ignore. He decided to play the charade out a little, just to see where it led.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you sent me to kill a man once before,” Bershad said. “And all that came of that was a bloody massacre and a pair of blue bars on my cheeks. Why should I trust you this time?”

  “Trust me. Don’t trust me. I couldn’t care less. My offer is made. Take it or leave it.”

  “What are you going to do if I refuse, exile me more?”

  Hertzog’s jaw tightened. “It would be a mistake for you to believe you have nothing left to lose. You have your forsaken shield, Rowan. And that donkey you’re so famously fond of. I could snap my fingers right now and one of my wardens would be more than happy to drag Rowan into the donkey’s stable, lock it, and incinerate them both. Perhaps I’ll drag you down there, too, so you can watch.”

  That did it.

  “I’ll be honest, Hertzog, you had me fooled for a minute with the gift and the grieving father act, but there’s the conniving king I remember. Rotting body packed with shit and lies.”

  Hertzog’s face colored with fury. Bershad judged the distance between himself and the king. He could cover it in six, maybe seven long strides. That was a little too far. He might not finish the job before the wardens got to him.

  “You want to know why I’m still alive, Hertzog?” Bershad stepped forward. The warden behind him followed, staying just close enough so that Bershad could slash his throat open in the same motion he used to draw his sword. “It’s because I knew that for all these years, you were sitting on your ass in this castle, getting old. Waiting to hear I’d finally bitten down on a seashell. I knew that every time you heard a servant whisper about the latest dragon I’d killed, you doubted whether you’d outlive me at all. And that’s what I wanted. For you to go down to the river knowing that I was still alive. That you’d failed.”

  Bershad looked down at the sword.

  “But you’ve given me an easier way.” He turned back to the king. “I don’t give a shit if the emperor of Balaria kidnapped your daughter, but I’ve wanted to kill you for fourteen years. Think I’ll pass on your shit-filled offer. I’d rather wrap things up right now. In this fucking room.”

  Bershad gripped the sword. Got ready to draw the blade. Hertzog licked his lips. There was sweat on his forehead.

  “Princess Ashlyn predicted that response.”

  The mention of Ashlyn’s name froze Bershad.

  “But I wonder what you’ll say to her when she asks you to do the exact same thing I have,” Hertzog continued. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll angle up to stab her in the heart.”

  Bershad frowned. Before he could respond, he heard a woman’s voice from behind him.

  “Hello, Silas.”

  Ashlyn Malgrave was leaning against a stone pillar with her arms crossed. She was holding a leather scroll in one hand.

  “Ashlyn,” Bershad said, relaxing his grip on the sword. The rage that had crept up to the edges of Bershad’s eyes retreated to his stomach.

  He stared at his old lover.

  Fourteen years had carved thin lines around the edges of her mouth, but the rest of her looked the same. Her black hair streamed down past her hips. Her large eyes and long nose made a sharp contrast to her soft chin. Ashlyn Malgrave’s severe disposition had always leaked into her features too much for most people to call her beautiful. A poet once said that her face was like a storm you watched crawl across the horizon of the sea—it was stunning to behold, but the sight left you uneasy. Bershad never understood that. Seeing her face again was the closest he’d felt to being home since he was exiled.

  “Fourteen years is a long time.” It was all Bershad could think to say.

  Ashlyn smiled, then motioned to the sword in Bershad’s hand. “I see that my father has begun to fill you in on our proposition.”

  Bershad clenched his jaw. He was willing to do a lot of things to end Hertzog’s life. And he was more than ready to follow him down the river. But he couldn’t do it in front of Ashlyn.

  “You want me to kill the emperor, too?” he asked her. “Why?”

  “You’re the perfect person for the job,” she said, then crossed the room. She dropped the leather scroll on the table and took a seat. Folded her black silk gown in her lap.

  Ashlyn’s bodyguard, Hayden, had also entered the room while Bershad was preparing to kill the king. Ashlyn’s mother, Shiru, had been a princess of Papyria—an island nation north of Almira that controlled the largest navy in Terra. King Hertzog had married Shiru for the beneficial alliance, but plenty of foreign customs came along with the princess and access to her homeland’s fleet. In Papyria, every woman of royal blood was assigned a highly trained female bodyguard called a widow. Hayden followed Ashlyn like a shadow, and wore the black sharkskin armor of her order.

  “Perfect person for the job,” Bershad repeated. “How do you figure that?”

  “Before I explain, there’s an awful lot of drawn steel in this room.” Ashlyn looked around. “Can everyone relax a little bit? Silas, come sit. Have a drink.”

  “I’m fine right here,” Bershad said.

  “As are my wardens,” Hertzog added, still glaring at Bershad.

  “Suit yourselves.” Ashlyn poured herself a glass of wine and took a long drink. Even though nobody had moved or sheathed a weapon, the mood in the room shifted. Everyone lowered their hackles a little.

  “Access to Balaria has proved impossible so far,” Ashlyn said, putting the goblet on the table. “But you’ve traveled behind their borders before, correct?”

  “Years ago,” Bershad said, frowning. “Ten summers.”

  “That’s why you’re perfect for this. How did you get across?”

  “A Ghalamarian Thundertail with my spear jammed in his throat carried me over the mountains and died a hundred leagues inside their border.”

  “Carried you how?” Hertzog cut in.

  “My armor tangled on the barbs of his tail before he took flight. We were three leagues up in the sky before I knew what happened. It was either go along for the ride, or fall to my death.”

  Hertzog grunt
ed. “There is not a single person in this court—from lord to whore—who believed that story when a Ghalamarian bard came around singing it.”

  “And yet every peasant in the Gorgon Valley believes I’m the god of demons,” Bershad said, turning back to the king. “They throw salt at my feet to prevent my evil spirit from devouring their souls. One village offered me the life of a firstborn son, so I might spare the rest of them.”

  Hertzog let out a phlegmy sigh. “The Gorgon peasants are the reason every other country in Terra thinks we’re a bunch of mud-worshipping savages.”

  “Last I checked, that was a fair description of most Almirans.”

  “We’re getting distracted,” Ashlyn said. “You were carried into Balaria by a Thundertail. What next?”

  “A merchant caravan found me next to the carcass of the dragon three days later. I couldn’t walk. Was drinking dragon’s blood to stay alive. They took me to the nearest outpost—some fortress in the desert—where I was arrested as an illegal outlander and put into a dungeon below the fort. A week or so after that, some commander showed up and released me. He knew who I was, and wasn’t in a rush to execute the Flawless Bershad for trespassing.”

  “What did he do instead?”

  “The commander dispatched three score of soldiers to lead me through a pass in the Razorback Mountains and into Ghalamar. They marched me to some harbor city and told me if a dragon carried me into their country again, they’d cut off my head and send it back to Almira in a pinewood box.”

  “What’s in those mountains?”

  “Rocks. Trees. Stone Scale dragons ready to ambush anything worth eating. Hordes of bloodthirsty savages that’ll cause problems if you don’t take sixty soldiers with you. It’s dangerous.”

  “How long did it take to clear the pass?”

  “About a month.”

  Ashlyn took one last sip of wine, then pushed the cup away. “Would you be able to lead a group of people back to the Balarian border without getting them lost or killed in those mountains?”

  Bershad weighed that. “You said getting across has proved impossible so far. How many times have you tried?”