Ashlyn watched in horror as the wolves produced short-swords and shields from behind their heavy cloaks, too. They’d known how this night would end. And just like Ashlyn, they’d prepared.
“Get behind me,” Hayden said. A circle of leathered bodies flowed around her. The widows drew their blades.
After the wolves had scattered across the lawn and separated from the widows who’d shadowed them, Wallace’s men began to regroup toward the platform, shoving unarmed nobles out of their way—one of whom went crashing into a mud totem, knocking it over and spraying sapphires and feathers across the grass. A wolf tossed Cedar Wallace a sword. Before the courtyard had emptied enough for the widows above to have clear shots with their slings, Wallace and his men locked their shields into a tight formation.
Linkon moved closer to Ashlyn. Even with his turtle’s mask on she could tell he was terrified. Lords Korbon and Brock fled the courtyard, surrounded by a small retinue of their wardens.
“My queen, we need to get you out of here,” Hayden said, keeping her eyes on Wallace’s approaching men.
Ashlyn clenched her jaw and tightened her fist. If she tried to run, her widows would make protecting her the priority, which gave Cedar Wallace a better chance of escaping. She couldn’t allow that to happen. This needed to end here.
“No. Kill them all.”
Hayden’s face twitched. She hesitated.
“Hayden!”
“Slings!” Hayden shouted. A whooshing sound filled the courtyard as every widow surrounding Ashlyn raised their slings, whirled them three times over their heads, and released.
Normally, a wardens’ shield wall would be near-impenetrable, even to a widow’s sling. But Shoshone and her widows had a height advantage, and Wallace’s wardens had all sawed down the size of their shields to smuggle them into the courtyard. There were gaps, and the widows found them. One wolf didn’t get his shield in place fast enough. His mask exploded and he fell to his knees, blood spraying across the stones where Ashlyn had been made queen five minutes earlier. Ten more men fell as the widows above found more gaps between the shields. If the wolves stayed where they were, they’d all be dead in two or three more volleys.
“Charge her!” Wallace snarled.
The shield wall broke apart and the wolves rushed at Ashlyn. Half the widows dashed forward to meet them—blades flashing in quick arcs. The widows dodged and parried the men’s heavy blades, but it seemed like most of their sword strikes and dagger gouges were blocked, too.
Now that Wallace’s men were in the open, Ashlyn waited for the slings and arrows from above to end the fight. But the shots stopped. Ashlyn looked up and saw the eagle-masked wardens attack the widows from behind. Swords stabbing and swinging. One of the eagles grappled with a widow who was trying to fire another shot into the courtyard and both of them wound up going over the wall. The other widows on the wall dropped their slings and drew blades to defend themselves against the attack.
Ashlyn couldn’t believe that Carlyle’s men had betrayed her, but there was no other explanation. Without their help on the walls, Ashlyn had lost her advantage. She unwound the dragon thread from her wrist. She wasn’t letting Cedar Wallace out of this courtyard alive.
“The cunts are too fucking quick,” a wolf snarled as he hacked at one widow and missed. “Just shove the bitches off!”
A moment later he swiped his round shield in an arc and knocked two widows off the high platform. They landed gracefully on the grass, but then had to run back up the stone stairs to rejoin the fray. The other wolves followed suit, shoving and swiping with their shields instead of attacking with swords. A gap formed in the widows’ line, and Cedar Wallace came pouncing through it.
He rushed directly at Ashlyn, but Hayden bolted forward and caught his sword with her own. Their blades flashed together once, twice, three times. So fast Ashlyn could barely follow the movement.
“Get the queen to the tower!” Hayden shouted when they broke apart for a moment.
Before Ashlyn could protest, a pair of strong hands lifted her by the shoulders and rushed her backward so quickly it felt like she was being carried by a powerful ocean current. The last thing Ashlyn saw before being whisked through a narrow hallway was Cedar Wallace slashing a widow’s throat open when she tried to attack him from behind.
Everything became a blur of stone floors and torches as Ashlyn was taken through the castle. There was shouting. The widow who’d grabbed her was breathing heavily.
“We have to go back,” Ashlyn said.
“No, my queen,” she huffed.
“I give the orders, and I order you to let me—”
“Hayden is following your orders, my queen,” the widow said, keeping Ashlyn moving. “There were too many of them to protect you and kill Cedar Wallace at the same time. With you safe, Hayden and the others can finish the wolves. It’ll be—”
They turned a corner and Ashlyn felt a splash of hot liquid hit her face. She turned to see a crossbow bolt in the widow’s throat. There were two wolves waiting farther down the hall, one of them already rewinding his crossbow. They stalked toward Ashlyn.
“Looks like the little dragon queen is all alone,” said the wolf on the left, who had a pale white mask.
“No Papyrian bitches around to cause trouble, either,” said the brown mask on the right. “Might be we can have a little taste before we gut you.”
Ashlyn knew what needed to be done. The two wolves approached, confident and relaxed. They didn’t even have their blades up.
“Please,” she said, letting her voice quiver and raising her hands.
“Please, what?” the white mask jeered, then looked at his friend. “Suldur, you want her first or second?”
“All yours, Owan. I’ll hold her down.”
Ashlyn didn’t move. She needed them close.
“Bet you’re wishing Hayden was with you right now,” Owan said as he wrapped a hand around Ashlyn’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, just held it there for a moment. The cold metal of his glove prickled Ashlyn’s flesh.
“Thing is,” Ashlyn said, “Hayden always said it was easier to protect me if I could protect myself.”
Ashlyn flicked her wrist in the practiced motion she’d made a thousand times, releasing the thumb blade into her hand. She slipped it beneath the white wolf mask, felt it sink deep into the flesh of his throat. The blade was so sharp, it was as easy as pushing a pin through a piece of paper. The wolf stumbled backward, dropped his sword, and put both hands against his throat as blood flooded around his fingers.
“Owan?” Suldur asked, too surprised to move.
Ashlyn sliced her palm open with the thumb blade—pushing the steel far deeper than she ever did when she practiced—and ripped her bleeding hand down the thread. Felt the lightning fill her hand. She focused on the two men’s chests. Pretended they were mortar seams.
“What the hell is—”
Ashlyn released two jagged arcs of lightning. Both men went rigid—smoke pouring from behind their masks. The wooden edges turned black and singed. When she stopped, they dropped to the ground like anchors from a ship.
Ashlyn pushed her back against a wall and slowly slid down to the floor, keeping her eyes fixed on the two dead wardens. She could smell their cooked flesh and burnt hair. The thumb-knife had turned so hot it left a blister on her wrist. The small metal hooks that kept her dress together were smoking around singed fabric.
She couldn’t stay there. Ashlyn pulled herself together, snatched a dagger from one of the dead wardens’ belts, and moved down the hall until she reached another corner. She pressed herself into an alcove so she had a view of both ends of the hallway, a dagger in one hand and the thread in the other. Heart hammering. If a warden came around either side, she was ready to kill them.
But it was five widows who found her.
They took Ashlyn back to the Queen’s Tower. Within minutes, the room was packed with widows. All of them had their weapons drawn and kept their eyes shift
ing between the doors and windows and shadows. Linkon Pommol was the only high lord who hadn’t fled the castle. He sat on a sofa across from her and said nothing. His skin was bone pale. Eyes wide with panic.
“What happened in the courtyard?” Ashlyn asked. “Malgrave wardens betrayed us?”
“It wasn’t Malgraves on the ramparts,” a widow said. She was bleeding from the forehead and wrist. “Wallace’s men intercepted them on their way to the castle. Murdered them and took their masks.”
“Are any of them still alive?”
“No,” the widow said.
Ashlyn was stopped from asking another question by sounds lower in the tower. Doors opening. Footsteps in the stairwell. Hayden burst through the door with her sword still drawn. There was fresh blood on her face, and even more gore on her blade. It dripped onto the pristine carpet at her feet.
“You’re safe,” Ashlyn said, standing. She resisted the urge to cross the room and hug Hayden.
“The castle and courtyard are secure, my queen,” Hayden said. “We killed almost all of the wolves.”
“Almost,” Ashlyn repeated. “What happened?”
Hayden wiped some blood away from her lips. “When Wallace saw that you were out of reach, he fought his way to the back of the courtyard. There was a boat there waiting for him. He escaped.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Ashlyn stared at her dragon’s mask. Blood was splashed across the left cheek. A splinter from the wolf’s mask was lodged on the dragon’s snout.
“My queen,” Hayden said. “What are your orders?”
Even if she’d killed Cedar Wallace, the fact that the attack happened at all was catastrophic. Instead of shoring up power and authority to launch an attack on Balaria, she’d nearly lost her life. If she didn’t make smart decisions now, she would lose Floodhaven, Almira, and everything else.
“Empty the castle, then seal it. That way, we don’t need so many widows guarding it. Then send two widows to Carlyle Llayawin on the walls,” she said. “Tell them to be prepared for an attack from outside, but also from within. They have permission to kill any warden who threatens them. It does not matter what type of mask they’re wearing.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Then I want every lord that was at my coronation found and visited by a widow. Tonight.”
“What message should they deliver?”
Ashlyn paused. Wallace hadn’t organized this attack alone. At least one other lord had helped him. But starting a witch hunt now wouldn’t get Ashlyn to the place she needed to be. She needed to build confidence, not spread fear.
“Tell them that Cedar Wallace has fled the city like the coward that he is. His assassins are dead. Tell them that Ashlyn Malgrave is alive. And she is their queen.”
27
BERSHAD
City of Taggarstan
The barkeep that Bershad had hit in the face left the tavern with a bloody rag pressed against his nose. After that, everyone else cleared out. Nobody wanted to be around if the vampire was getting involved.
“I am assuming you and Vallen Vergun know each other?” Vera asked when the room was empty.
Bershad nodded. “It was his army I massacred at Glenlock Canyon.”
“And what are you planning to do when you see him, exactly?” Vera asked.
Bershad glanced at Rowan, who had a concerned look stitched to his face.
“Kill him,” Bershad said. His old life was dead and gone—nothing would change that—but that didn’t mean Bershad was going to pass up a chance to remove that pale bastard’s head from his body.
“In case you’ve forgotten, we need to make a deal with this vampire to get our seals,” Vera said. “Hard to make deals with dead men.”
Bershad didn’t say anything. Just reached around the bar to get another jug of wine. Drank half of it in one gulp. He knew Vera was right, but in that moment—with so much ancient rage boiling back into his blood—he was having trouble summoning concern for kidnapped princesses or doomed dragons.
“The three of you need to leave,” Bershad said.
“We should all leave while we still have a chance,” Felgor said. “This is a bad, bad situation we’re in.”
“I agree,” Rowan said. “It’s a pretty big coincidence that the man we need to see is the same man Bershad has such history with.” He put a hand on Bershad’s shoulder. “I say we get out of here and find another way into Balaria.”
“And I say we pay him with the emerald egg, take our seals, and finish the job we came here to do,” Vera said. “No reason for anyone to draw steel.”
“Yes, there is.” Bershad turned to Rowan. “Get them out of here. Wait for me by our boat. If I’m not back with the seals by nightfall, Felgor can try his luck with another forger. Do not come looking for me.”
“Silas…” Rowan started to say.
“No arguments. Get out of here, all of you.”
Bershad rubbed Alfonso’s muzzle once, then patted him on the butt so he’d follow Rowan out the door. Felgor followed, shaking his head. Vera stopped at the door.
“Ashlyn Malgrave didn’t send you out here for vengeance.”
Bershad drank from the horn of ale. Didn’t look at her. “Go, Vera.”
* * *
The tavern stayed empty for half an hour. Bershad drank and waited.
Eventually, two men came through the main door. One of them was twice the size of a normal person. He had pale skin, an ox-like neck, and hands the size of cooking pots. Taller than Bershad by half a head, and almost twice as thick in the chest. His eyelids were tattooed with a second pair of eyes, something Lysterian mercenaries did to show they were always ready for trouble. There was an enormous two-handed sword slung over his back—the grip extended past his head and the tip of the blade nearly reached the floor.
The second man was shorter than Vera—all sinewy muscle and bone. His skin was dark and covered with tattoos. His long black hair was braided and tied into a big knot on the top of his head. He had weasel-eyes that darted back and forth among everything in the room.
“Heard you smashed Barlow’s face,” the skinny one said.
“He the one that pours wine in this shithole?” Bershad asked.
“Yup.”
“Then you heard right.”
“I’m Liofa. That’s Devan.” He jerked his head toward the big man. “Don’t bother trying to get past us.” Liofa twirled one finger in a circle. “Got the place covered.”
“If I wanted to run, I’d have done it already,” Bershad said. “Did Barlow tell you who I am?”
“He told me who you said you were.” Liofa spat on the dusty floor. “Let me see your arm, dragonslayer.”
Bershad took a few steps forward so he was closer to a torch. Then he pulled his sleeve up, revealing the dozens of dragons tattooed to his skin. No other dragonslayer in the world had even half as many marks, leaving little doubt about Bershad’s identity.
Liofa whistled. “Right. The boss would like to invite you to the Black Fox for an early lunch.”
Bershad grunted. Spat. “Let’s go.”
Devan led them across the floating bridge to the Black Fox. Liofa followed three paces behind them, whistling. Bershad glanced down the bridges that led to the main part of Taggarstan and saw they were all blocked off by armed men who were staring at him. When he reached the Black Fox’s hull, Devan pointed to a wooden spiral staircase that crawled up the side, leading to the raised platform above.
“You first, lizard killer,” he said.
The platform was at least three hundred strides across. Half of it was covered by a pavilion made from human skin. The different sections of people-shaped leathers were lashed together with strands of red-and-white silk that fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Bershad had seen the pavilion before. The smell of perfumes floated through the air, but there was something else mixed in with the eucalyptus and rosemary.
Blood.
Devan moved past Bershad and nodded at the
two guards who stood on either side of the tent flap, both of whom wore expensive breastplates and carried well-made swords. They opened the flap and the smell of death poured out.
“Takes some getting used to,” Liofa said.
“Inside,” Devan growled. Nobody bothered to confiscate his weapons, but they both followed him into the tent.
There were four impaled men inside—one in each corner. The wooden spear had gone through their asses and now sprouted from their mouths like a thick, red-stemmed plant. The floor was covered with more leathered skins cut from human flesh.
A man with bone-white skin was sitting at a large circular table in the middle of the room, eating a bloody piece of unrecognizable meat.
“Hello, Silas,” Vallen Vergun said from his seat. “It’s good to see you again.”
Vallen’s long hair stretched down to his waist in a silver streak. The pallor of his gaunt face would have made more sense on a dead man. But Vallen’s eyes were the most unsettling thing about him—bloodred orbs set in deep sockets.
“Heard about that whole exile thing,” Vergun continued. “Tragic.”
“I’m sure you’re overcome with sadness,” Bershad said.
Vergun smiled and set down his knife and fork. Steepled both of his hands in front of his face. “I’d ask what you’re doing in Taggarstan, but I’ve been expecting you for quite some time.” He studied Bershad. “Although I was also expecting Yonmar Grealor. Where is he?”
“Yonmar got shot in the face with an arrow on the way here,” Bershad said. “Bad luck.”
“I see.” Vergun didn’t seem surprised. “Liofa, Devan. That will be all for now.”
The two thugs left.
“So. Forgeries and cheap taverns in this mosquito-infested shithole, is it?” Bershad asked when they were alone. “Pretty long fall from commanding your own mercenary company.”
“To the contrary, I have more killers working for me now than I ever commanded under Wormwrot Company. They’re just a bit more spread out. And I’m far wealthier and more powerful than I was fourteen years ago. Take my arrangement with Grealor, for example. He agreed to deliver an item of peerless value to me in exchange for the forged seals of entrance to Balaria. Creating those seals is a very difficult and expensive process. Many people in Taggarstan claim to sell forgeries, but they’re almost always detected at the gate and the unlucky travelers are turned into porcupines. Mine, on the other hand, are flawless. Just like you, Silas. And because they’re so good, I turn a rather incredible profit on them.”
Blood of an Exile Page 31
