“The people of Argel strung that dragon’s mate against a stone wall and left him there. If someone did a thing like that to your lover, what would you do?”
“I don’t have a lover.”
“Pretend you do.”
Vera hesitated. “I would kill them.”
“Me, too. Slaying that dragon was the only thing to do, but that doesn’t make it right. Just necessary.”
Vera studied his face. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A drunken brute who didn’t know how to do anything besides stab things with a spear. Or his cock.”
“Well, give it time,” Bershad said. “We don’t know each other very well yet.”
Vera snorted. Bershad caught a flicker of a smile on her face before she turned back toward the fire.
* * *
The Line of Lornar was a wall in celebration of death. Every fifteen yards there was a human skeleton propped up by pine branches and twisted into a position of cruelty. Their bones were bleached white and their skulls were painted red. Behind them, their rusted weapons hung in a tight bundle of rotting hemp rope.
Dozens of massive black birds with white-tipped wings and hooked beaks filled the pine branches. They called to each other in short, mournful cries.
“Whose bones are these?” Vera asked, approaching one.
“Soldiers of Ghalamar who got caught on the wrong side of the Line.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it,” Yonmar said, touching one of the bone clusters with shaking fingers. “My brothers used to tease me and try to give me nightmares with stories about the wall of bones. They said the demon spirits of the soldiers still haunt the mountainside.”
“Demons aren’t the problem up here,” Bershad said.
“Still,” Yonmar said. “I should make a totem for good fortune.”
He started to open the bag on his hip.
“If you pull something out of that bag, I will shove it down your throat,” Bershad said. “Now check your weapons and let’s go.”
The enormous birds followed them up the mountain like sentinels. The branches over Bershad’s head creaked and shifted every time one of them landed. They moved through a forest of paper birch, Ghalamarian ash, and white oak trees. Every few minutes they passed a large boulder that was festooned with moss and lichen. Bershad gave all the boulders a wide berth.
“Why are we going so far around those?” Felgor asked between pants after they spent twenty minutes circumventing a particularly large boulder by way of a steep hill and a thicket of thorn bushes.
“No good way to tell the difference between a boulder and a Stone Scale waiting to devour anything that comes within snatching distance,” Bershad said. In theory, he knew that he should feel a tremor if it really was a dragon, but Bershad didn’t want to risk it. Stone Scales were tricky bastards.
“Oh.”
After that, Felgor started hiding behind Rowan every time they passed near a boulder.
The signs of spring were everywhere—mountain flowers starting to rise, green leaves poking from the tips of low-hanging tree branches. The changing season made Bershad think about all the dragons that would begin their migration to Tanglemire in the next few weeks. They didn’t have much time.
As they climbed higher, their path narrowed into a slim game trail that was littered with deer tracks and fox prints. The woods grew quiet. Bershad led them through the forest while Vera covered their back trail. She had a drawn dagger in her right hand and a loaded sling in the left, ready for anything that might creep up behind them. Rowan, Felgor, and Yonmar walked in the middle. Yonmar clutched his sword in a way that made it clear he had never swung the blade in defense of his life. Bershad didn’t know whether to be angry or jealous. His own life had been colored with violence for so long, he could no longer imagine what a peaceful version of his soul would feel like.
Around evening a cold rain started misting down from higher elevations. They made camp for the night between two great pinyon trees whose branches twisted and mingled with each other overhead, forming a small respite from the damp. It was the best chance they had to stay slightly dry during the night. Bershad dug a deep pit and sparked a fire using dried pine needles as kindling that he’d saved in his pocket once he saw the rain coming.
“I’ll get us something to eat,” Rowan said, removing a bow from Alfonso’s pack along with a few arrows.
“I can help,” Felgor said.
“This is a little different from robbing food carts and windowsills for scraps,” Rowan said.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t be good at it.”
Rowan squinted at the Balarian. “Fine. Just stay quiet.”
“Rowan,” Vera called as they were heading away from the fire. “Keep him in your sights. Always.”
Rowan smiled and smacked Felgor on the back. “Relax. Felgor here knows I’ll shoot him directly in the asshole if he tries to run.”
They disappeared into the fading light. Vera pulled some water from a nearby spring while Bershad fed the fire, making sure the light didn’t reach beyond the rim of the pit. Yonmar donned his armor with the clumsiness of a man who had never done it by himself before. He wasn’t strong enough to wear the armor during the day, but the young lord was eager to protect himself while standing still. Bershad had also noticed that while he was more than happy to let Alfonso lug his armor around all day, Yonmar always kept that leather satchel on his hip.
The three of them sat by the fire in silence until Rowan and Felgor returned about half an hour later.
“Success!” Felgor announced. He was cradling something in the front of his shirt. “Got two rabbits and a bunch of wild onions.”
“You did?” Vera asked.
“I got the rabbits,” Rowan said, approaching the fire. The animals were tied to his belt. “And the onions. Felgor the forager here only managed to find a bunch of sour crab apples that taste like shit.”
“They’re not for us. They’re for Alfonso.” He walked over to the donkey and began feeding him the tiny apples. Alfonso chomped one after the other and twitched his ears at the taste. “See? He likes them.”
Bershad shrugged. “It’s not the worst thing. The grass’ll thin out the higher we climb.”
Rowan gutted the rabbits, chopped each onion in half, and dumped all of it into the pot. Everyone watched the water simmer up to a boil.
“I do not think a meal has ever smelled so good,” said Yonmar, fiddling with his chain mail jacket.
“The taste’ll disappoint,” Rowan said, stirring the mixture. “Wish we had some salt.”
“Did you say salt?” Felgor asked, turning away from Alfonso, who had eaten all the apples and was now sniffing Felgor’s shirt, looking for more. The Balarian approached the fire and produced a surprisingly large black pouch tied by a leather thong. He opened it, licked a finger, and dipped it inside. Came out with a fingertip covered in small white granules. “What do you think, four pinches? Five?”
“Where the hell did you get that?” Vera asked.
“Nicked it from that blond-haired soldier back in Argel. Right before Bershad lopped the top of his head off.”
Rowan smiled. “You can’t hunt for shit, Felgor, but this makes up for it. Seven pinches, I think.”
Felgor added the salt and Rowan tasted it. Nodded approval. Bershad found his pipe and packed it with Almiran tobacco and a bit of crushed opium to help relax his legs and feet after the long day of walking. He watched Felgor’s eyes brighten as the poppy smell wafted around their fire, and passed him the pipe. Felgor had fed his donkey and improved the meal—that earned him a few drags, at least.
“What got you thrown in Floodhaven’s dungeon?” Bershad asked him.
“Not good manners to ask a prisoner how he earned his chains,” said Felgor between puffs from the pipe.
“But you’re not a prisoner anymore.”
“Invisible chains keep you bound the same as iron ones. I’
m still a prisoner. Of you, and her.” He motioned to Vera, who sat on a rock apart from them sharpening her blade. “And even if all of you go into the ground before me, I am still a prisoner of these mountains.”
“Quit stalling and tell us,” Rowan said without looking up from the pot he was stirring.
Felgor offered the pipe to Vera. When she waved it off, he passed it back to Bershad without offering it to Yonmar. Then he rubbed his chin a few times, hiding the smile spreading across his lips. “Some of them eagle-masked bastards caught me robbing a brothel in the Foggy Side of Floodhaven.”
“Dungeon and the block is a pretty steep punishment for robbing a whorehouse,” Bershad said.
“Depends on who you rob. Wasn’t just any brothel. It was for … special tastes.”
“Children?”
Felgor shook his head. “It was highborn only. And they were the types who still take their mud god worship a bit too seriously. You know, the ones who get a little extra horny on full moons? I swear to you, there were fifty lords and ladies in that room rutting like pigs.”
Yonmar shifted uncomfortably, probably because his family was notorious for their full-moon orgies.
“Get caught trying to take a turn?” Bershad asked, offering the pipe to him again.
Felgor took a deep pull. “Highborn tail isn’t really for me,” he said, smoke drifting out of his mouth as he spoke. “I was there for the silver and the gold and the priceless gems that were packed into the human-sized mud sculptures they had watching the whole thing. You Almirans bring a lot of money to your orgies.”
Bershad leaned back against the trunk of the pine. “So how’d you get caught?”
“Same way every thief gets caught. I got greedy. Used to be I’d only rob a room if it was empty. Safer that way. But I saw a chance for a better payout and I took it. There was a ruby the size of my fist in one of those statues. I figured they’d take it with them when they left, so I went for it, right there in the middle of the orgy. Some lord saw me and yelled out. I figured having his cock all the way up a courtesan’s ass would distract him, but alas…” Felgor spread his arms out in feigned desperation. “Then it was the usual drill: irons, dungeon, rats nibbling at my ankles. I was only a day or two away from the block, but some blue-eyed widow sprung me from the line.”
“Hayden,” Bershad said. “That widow’s name is Hayden.”
“If you say so,” Felgor continued. “Anyway, this Hayden said she had alternative thoughts about my future.”
“What did she say, exactly?” Bershad asked, still curious as to why Ashlyn had added Felgor to their crew.
“Apparently Princess Ashlyn had gotten ahold of my Balarian records. Not sure how. Justice in the homeland isn’t doled out the same way as in Almira, where a lord hears your story and just does whatever the fuck he pleases. Everybody gets a trial in Balaria, and every trial gets written down. Word for word. They got a whole building full of the records in Burz-al-dun. Pretty place, I robbed it a few times.”
“What made your record so interesting?”
Felgor shrugged. “When I was fourteen, I was arrested in the Imperial Palace of Burz-al-dun, posing as a chef’s assistant. I hadn’t stolen anything, and they never figured out how I got mixed into the servant crowd, so they gave me three lashes and let me go. But the charge was in the record, even after all these years. ‘Gaining Illegal and Clandestine Entrance to the Imperial Palace,’ I believe it was. The blue-eyed Papyrian read it back to me.”
Felgor took another pull on the pipe.
“Anyway, this Hayden character asked me if I could sneak into the palace again. I told her there was no way to be sure, but I doubt if the powdery bastards closed up my entrance. Would have caused a real shitty situation, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“Anyway,” Felgor said, ignoring him, “then she asked if I could lead other people into the palace the same way I came in all those years ago. I said sure, as long as they aren’t too fat. Then I got turned over to Vera and that bastard.” He pointed his pipe at Yonmar.
“And neither of you thought this was worth mentioning?” Bershad glared at Vera and Yonmar.
Yonmar dug into the ground a bit with a stick he’d picked up, keeping his eyes on the dirt. “You talk too much, Balarian.”
Felgor leaned back and pulled his boots up next to the fire. Smiled. “You know, I’ve heard that. There was a whore in Naropa who said I talked more during sex than any other man she’d fucked. A whore said that! And who knows how many men actually put their prick in her, I mean Naropa is known for its whores.”
Bershad turned to Vera, who just shrugged. “I assumed Princess Ashlyn told you.”
“She didn’t.”
Same as she hadn’t told the others what Bershad was planning to do when they reached the Imperial Palace of Burz-al-dun. Bershad didn’t like it, but he couldn’t deny the shrewdness.
“Because you could be captured,” Vera said, coming to the same conclusion. “Tortured.” She flicked her eyes between Bershad and Rowan. “The less a man knows, the less he can say when he’s getting his fingernails torn off, or his balls stuffed up his own ass.”
“People do that?” Felgor asked.
“People do whatever it takes to get answers,” Vera said.
For a while, the only sound was Rowan’s ladle moving around the rim of the pot and the steady scrape of Vera sharpening her dagger.
“Stew’s ready,” Rowan said. “Prepare for disappointment.”
They ate in silence, all of them crowded around the pot and passing around two large spoons. The food tasted like grass and dirt, but Bershad was so hungry he didn’t care. When the pot was empty, Rowan let Alfonso lick the rim.
“The salt helped,” Rowan said to Felgor as he added a small log to the fire. “Thanks.”
“Just wish you’d stolen some garlic, too,” Bershad said.
“Or some lavender,” Vera said, staring at the fire. “Lavender and wild rice and that would have been a proper meal.”
“Papyrians use lavender to flavor their stews?” Felgor asked. “I always thought it was just something whores put in their soap.”
“How much of your knowledge is informed by brothels?” Vera asked.
“’Bout half I’d say.”
“Animal,” Yonmar muttered, shifting in his armor.
“Oh, like you never spent a minute of your life in a brothel, Lord Gelden?”
“It’s Grealor.”
“Whatever.”
Felgor continued talking about things he’d learned in brothels while everyone else talked about their favorite spices. After a while, Bershad felt his bowels tighten in an uncomfortable way and took his leave to deal with it.
He found a large boulder about fifty yards away. They were too high up for Stone Scales to be a problem anymore, so he dropped his pants and squatted. It was the first time he’d been alone since Floodhaven Castle. His thoughts drifted. The consequences of his decisions over the last few weeks began to sink in. Two days into the Razorback Mountains. Dead men and another dead dragon behind him. A country ahead where he’d be executed on sight if he was caught. The odds of him ever seeing Ashlyn again got smaller with each passing footfall. Thinking of her hurt his chest.
Bershad started finishing things up. He didn’t like how much his emotions had traveled during a simple task like shitting.
There was a soft twang from the trees, and then there was an arrow stuck in Bershad’s thigh.
“Fuck!”
He fell from his squat, barely missing the pile of his own shit, and scrambled to the other side of the boulder with his pants around his ankles. There was a soft curse a couple dozen feet off in the trees from the archer who’d just bungled the job of waylaying him mid-shit. Then the soft whisper of a blade being drawn from a leather scabbard.
Bershad was unarmed. Stupid to have taken a shit without a weapon. The arrow in his thigh was burning, and crouching was pure agony, but it had t
aken him in the meat of his leg. Not serious. He tore his pants the rest of the way off, wiped his ass with them, and chucked them toward camp in a tight ball. They caught the branches of a pine and snapped a few twigs on their way down.
The archer headed in the direction of Bershad’s soiled pants. It was amazing how blind people were to cheap tricks in the middle of a fight. Most men were rubbed down to terrified fools as soon as swords were drawn. As the footsteps approached, Bershad circled around the other side of the boulder so he stayed out of sight.
The archer paused as he came around the boulder, searching. Bershad slipped behind him. All he saw was a short figure in a bear cloak. He leapt forward, clamped both hands onto the short man’s head, and slammed it into the side of the boulder as hard as he could. The sound of a skull hitting rock made a wet crunching noise.
The body went limp, but just to be sure, Bershad flipped him over, grabbed the blade from his hand, and ran it across his throat. It wasn’t until the blood was spurting from the wound that Bershad realized he had just killed a girl. No older than twenty. She had curly red hair and the most crooked teeth Bershad had ever seen. The final bits of life were draining out of her, but she was foggy from getting her skull caved in and didn’t seem afraid. Just confused and lost.
“Sorry, girl.” He realized it was the same thing he’d said to the dragon he’d killed in Argel.
Bershad heard metal on metal clanging together from the direction of their camp. The Skojit must have been waiting for one of them to separate before attacking. Smart. Bershad moved slowly, favoring the leg without an arrow in it and trying to warm his freezing balls a little with his left hand. The girl’s comrades would assume she put an arrow through his neck, so he’d have surprise on his side if he was careful.
Bershad came up to the two pines. Everything was chaos and violence. Four Skojit had attacked. The stew pot had been turned over and rolled down the hill. The fire spilled from the confines of the pit he’d dug. Vera was darting around the strewn fire, pursued by the largest Skojit, who wore a suit of mismatched iron armor wreathed in animal furs. He was swinging at Vera with a two-handed sword. He took two big swipes, and each time Vera ducked, bolted forward, and stabbed him with one of her daggers—first in the thigh, then high up on the right side of his rib cage. On the second strike, her dagger got stuck in his body and she abandoned it, slipping away before the Skojit could swing at her again.
Blood of an Exile Page 20
