“See, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Emperor Mercer raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t come to Balaria for Kira.” Bershad loosened his shoulders. “I came for you.”
For the first time since the conversation started, the emperor of Balaria looked confused.
Bershad jerked his arm up as hard as possible. Felt his shoulder snap out of the socket. It gave him just enough reach to tear the vial of moss from his hair, rip the cork out with his teeth, and drink the contents. The loamy flavor filled his mouth. A warm strength radiated from his bones.
The emperor stood up from his chair. The sentries around the wall were too surprised to move.
“What are you doing?” Mercer said, face twisted into confusion and disgust.
Bershad looked at him and smiled. Felt his shoulder sink back into the socket with a satisfying click. All of the lingering wounds from his fight with Vergun repaired themselves in seconds.
“Choosing a fourth option.”
Bershad heaved both arms over his head, except this time, instead of being stopped by the chains, he pulled the iron links out of the floor with a splintering snap. He swung one chain into the nearest sentry’s head, turning his face to red slop. Whipped the second chain toward the emperor. Mercer managed to tumble backward just fast enough so the scrap of iron dug into the leg of his chair instead of his chest.
Bershad stood up. Pulled the chains off his wrists. But before he had a chance to do anything else, three spears jolted into his body from different directions. He went down on one knee. Snapped a spear shaft with an open palm, tore the point out of his stomach, and rammed it under the chin of the soldier who’d stabbed him. The spears in Bershad’s back twisted, but he ignored the pain and reached for the sword of the man he’d just brained. Drew it and flashed it across the throats of the other two men who’d stabbed him.
“Protect the emperor!” one soldier yelled.
“Just kill him!” Mercer shouted over the soldier, backing up toward the far wall, away from the door.
Bershad ripped the two spears out of his body. The wounds closed in seconds. There were three soldiers left. Two rushed him with their spears while the third moved in front of the emperor. When the closest soldier jabbed his spear forward, Bershad caught it by the point and rammed it backward into his gut, doubling him over. He parried the second guard’s thrust and stabbed him in the chest—pushing his sword through the steel breastplate as if it was made of cheese. Bershad moved toward the emperor, slicing the top of the doubled-over guard’s head off as he passed.
The final sentry was standing in a middle guard but his hands were shaking so much it barely counted as a defense.
“Im-impossible,” he whispered.
Bershad grabbed the sentry’s blade and shoved it into his forehead. The sentry crumpled into a dead heap at the feet of the emperor. Bershad held up his palm so that Mercer could see his skin knit itself back together.
“Are the consequences of your death feeling a little more pressing now, Emperor?”
Mercer’s gray eyes flicked around the room, looking for a way to escape. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to renegotiate our terms?” he asked when he didn’t find one. “An emperor is a powerful person to have in your debt.”
“No.”
Mercer swallowed. “Ashlyn Malgrave sent you here to kill me, didn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“I see. That’s the difference between an emperor and the queen of some muddy forest. She sent one man to slit my throat. I stole her entire country from underneath her feet. The Malgraves are finished.”
“You’re pretty confident for a dead man.”
“Killing me won’t change anything. You can stop this cull, but you can’t stop the tide that’s coming. Nobody can. Ashlyn won’t outlive me by very long.” His voice caught in his throat and he took a moment to collect himself. “She’s no better than I am. She’s digging for power inside the bodies of dragons just like me, except what she’s found won’t keep a cold person warm at night. It won’t help the hungry or sick or starving. It will crack this world in half. No, she’s not better than me. She just sent a fucking demon to do her dirty work, that’s all.”
Bershad didn’t know what Mercer was talking about. Didn’t care, either. This was only going to end one way.
“You can die with a weapon in your hand if you want.”
Mercer nodded. Then he bent down and pulled the sword out of the sentry’s forehead. Shifted the blade to his left hand and moved to a low guard. His grip and form were well-practiced. Confident. He attacked with an elegant series of strikes. He was a capable swordsman, but it didn’t matter. Bershad parried and dodged until Mercer came at him with a sideways attack toward his chest. He let Mercer’s sword dig deep between two of his ribs where it got stuck, then Bershad stabbed down through Mercer’s collarbone and into his heart. Mercer sighed lightly as if he’d just been told an unhappy truth by a lover. He died on his feet, propped up by the length of steel rammed through his body.
Bershad dropped him. Stood there taking long, deep breaths while the damage to his own body disappeared. He’d put hundreds of leagues under his heels to reach this moment. Now that it had arrived, Bershad didn’t feel any different. No sudden and warm feeling of relief flooding his conscience. That’s what made life such a bastard—guilt rode on your back heavy and hard and relentless. Redemption was light as a feather. Easy to forget entirely.
35
BERSHAD
Balaria, Burz-al-dun, Imperial Palace
Bershad stood in the room of corpses trying to think about his next move. He glanced at the door. There were no sounds or signs of more soldiers coming. Might be he could slip out of the room and find another one of those servant passages. Somehow get out of the palace, sneak aboard a ship, and smuggle himself out of Balaria. But it was a long shot. And even if he had a clear path out of the city, he wouldn’t have taken it. Bershad turned back to the bookshelf.
Osyrus Ward knew what was happening to his body, which meant Bershad needed to talk to him. It was that simple.
The hidden latch was behind a thick tome called The Conquests of Emperor Junock III. Bershad opened the passage and waited for it to close behind him. Then he found a pulley mechanism on the opposite side, stuck his sword into it, and bent the contraption so it wouldn’t open again. He headed down the narrow, spiral stairs. As he descended, the rosemary perfume of the castle faded until there was nothing but the faint scent of dragon oil and mold.
The stairwell ended in a large subterranean room. A few lanterns burned at the far end, but otherwise it was too dark to see much right away. Still, he got the sense the room expanded for a long distance in all directions. There was also a low vibration reverberating from the floor.
As Bershad moved toward the lanterns, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He caught the dim outline of large objects to his left and right that looked vaguely like massive crossbows, although each one had a heavy, mechanical case the size of a horse’s chest attached to it. Bershad figured those had to be the ballistas that Mercer had told him about. He really did have hundreds of them.
Past the lanterns, there was a low-ceilinged hallway that opened into a much smaller and better-lit chamber. There was a fire in one corner, and a thick oak door reinforced with steel studs in another. Lanterns covered the walls. A large, wooden table was bolted to a stone pallet in the center of the room. The surface was littered with scraps of bloody organs, dragon scales, metal tools, and glass beakers set over low-burning flames. Next to the fire, there was a simple wooden desk against a wall. Osyrus Ward sat on a stool in front of the desk, smiling at Bershad. His wild beard and oiled hair made the shadow behind him look like an Almiran totem.
“Welcome to my workshop,” he said in a sandpapery voice.
Bershad looked around for weapons or sentries but saw neither.
“We’re alone, I assure you,” Osyrus said. “Which means I can drop t
he silly custom with your name. Lord Bershad, I have wanted to meet you for a very long time.”
“Don’t you want to know how I got down here?” Bershad asked, motioning to the blood on his clothes.
“I know how you got down here. You killed everyone upstairs.”
Bershad stepped into the room. “Would have thought you’d have a stronger reaction to the murder of your emperor.”
Osyrus shrugged. “Emperor Mercer was a vital ally, but his role in my work had mostly run its course. I shall carry on without him, as I always do.”
“Carry on,” Bershad repeated. “You mean the cull of Tanglemire?” Bershad asked, tightening his grip on the sword.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was Mercer’s project. I aim far higher with my work.” He smiled to himself, revealing a set of oddly perfect teeth behind his feral beard. “I’m afraid the lizard cull will not happen this year. And who knows where the world will be in five years, when the next Great Migration occurs? Perhaps it will not be necessary at all. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not the only thing I want.” Bershad hesitated. He’d come down here for answers. It was time to get some. “I want to know what I am.”
“You are a paradox. Both the creator and destroyer of dragons.”
Bershad frowned. That didn’t make sense. “Why does the moss heal my body?”
“It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it? I’m very excited to learn more from you—you’ll be a very interesting specimen to study.”
“You’re not going to study anything, old man. You’re going to answer my questions and then maybe I won’t kill you.”
“I assure you, Lord Bershad, you are not the one controlling this situation.”
Bershad raised the sword in his hand. “You sure about that?”
“Oh, yes. Because I know something that you don’t.”
“What’s that?” Bershad asked, taking a step forward. If he had to beat the answers out of the crazy old man, he would.
“That if you combine canistine root with the embryonic fluid of a dragon’s egg and simmer at low heat for forty-three hours, you’ll create a tranquilizer that is so strong, no living creature can resist its potency, regardless of whatever … irregular strength they might be carrying within their blood.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bershad was halfway across the room.
“Allow me to demonstrate,” Osyrus said, digging one knobby hand inside of his jacket. He produced a small crossbow and shot Bershad in the chest. The impact pushed Bershad onto his heels, but didn’t do much more—it was a small bolt. Bershad was about to grab Osyrus, but his balance rolled over and his vision blurred. His face hit the ground. Everything started going dark.
“You see?” came Osyrus’s voice, although it sounded far away now. “Don’t worry, Lord Bershad, we will continue our conversation later, under more favorable conditions. But since you’re about to lose consciousness anyway, I’d like to perform an initial test.”
Osyrus rummaged around out of sight for a few moments, then appeared over Bershad with a thick-bladed machete in his hand.
“Tell me, Lord Bershad, have you ever lost and then regrown a limb?”
Bershad tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t form on his lips. It felt like he’d drunk an entire barrel of wine.
“I didn’t think so.” Osyrus pulled Bershad’s left foot away from his body a little bit—the one that had been savaged by a Red Skull years ago, and was covered in scar tissue. “Brace yourself, Lord Bershad. This is going to be quite painful.”
Osyrus hammered the blade into Bershad’s ankle with a sickening crunch. Bershad felt nothing at first, but he heard blood splattering against the stone floor. The pain came a second later—hot and blinding, like someone was holding a white-hot poker against Bershad’s flesh and bone.
He blacked out.
* * *
Bershad woke up, blinking a few times as the ceiling of the dungeon came into focus. His wrists and ankles were bound to the table by thick steel manacles. He was naked except for his deerskin breechcloth. His head was foggy and pounding. He pulled against the manacles, but was met with uncompromising resistance.
“Don’t bother, you can’t yank those out of the floor,” Osyrus Ward said from somewhere behind him. “The steel is fused to a rock that goes fifty strides into the ground. A full-grown Red Skull wouldn’t be able to break free.”
Bershad turned his head to find Osyrus Ward sitting at his desk, writing notes on a brown length of parchment.
“You’ve been asleep for some time. Things are rather chaotic up above,” Osyrus said, not looking up from the parchment but pointing at the ceiling with his quill. “The poor emperor, slaughtered just one day before his brother was scheduled to marry an Almiran princess. And the assassin is nowhere to be found.” Osyrus smiled to himself. “Balarians are nothing if not adaptable, though. You’ve missed the first combined marriage and coronation ceremony in the history of the empire. It was quite an affair—the citizens of Burz-al-dun are quite taken with your Kira. Funny how easily a pretty face and a few charming words will win over a large crowd of people, even if they are supposed to be mourning the death of their previ ous leader. Emperor Ganon and Empress Kira Domitian rule Balaria now. I think their reign is full of interesting possibilities.”
Bershad was too disoriented to follow most of what Osyrus was saying. He managed to lift his head just enough to see down his body. But instead of the ankle stump he was expecting, Bershad saw a perfectly normal foot. All of the scar tissue from his previous injury was gone.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Osyrus said, looking up from his parchment. “With the proper treatment, the strength of the growth matches the nature of the wound. There are limits, of course. But not many.”
“What did you do to me?” Bershad asked.
“Nothing you haven’t done to yourself dozens of times before, judging from the ruination of scars across your body. I just did it better. Cleaner.”
There were dozens of empty glass flasks sitting on a small tray next to him, and there was an oak cask halfway filled with dark green moss. Bershad could see the blue flowers and smell the rich loam.
“Do you know what that is?” Osyrus asked.
“I know what it does.”
“Yes, of course. Almirans call it Gods Moss, but it has had many names throughout the ages. It’s extremely rare.”
“You’ve got a shitload of it.”
“Yes, well. I have unique resources when it comes to collecting Gods Moss. All of this came from a warren located in the heart of the Soul Sea. Very remote. Very dangerous to visit. But worth it. You see, any kind of common moss will accelerate your healing to some degree. You could scrape some dusty bits from an old brick wall and heal a minor scrape. Or pack a bunch of slimy river muck into broken flesh and bone, and repair yourself in a week or so. But warren moss works on an entirely different level. And of the three types of warren moss, only a healthy supply of extremely fresh Gods Moss, like this, has the potency to regrow lost limbs. This information alone is a landmark discovery, Lord Bershad! You have no idea how much I’ve learned from you in the short time we’ve spent together.”
“Is it magic?” Bershad asked. It was all he could think to ask.
“There is no such thing as magic, Lord Bershad. Just unanswered questions.” Osyrus got up from his chair and crossed the room so that he was hovering over Bershad’s face. “If you showed a barbarian from the jungle nations a suit of steel armor and told him that you forged it from a bunch of rocks, he would call that magic, no? My craft is the same. But with this kind of work, everyone is a barbarian except for me. No, what happens to you is a gift from your forefathers. Passed down unseen through the blood and the ages, just like your green eyes.”
Osyrus produced a tool that looked like a sharpened spoon and, without any warning, scooped out a chunk of flesh from Bershad’s new foot.
“Fuck!”
Bershad tried very hard to punch Osyrus in the face, but the manacles held strong. He tried again, but the thick steel wouldn’t budge. The old man leaned in to scoop another chunk of flesh out of Bershad’s thigh. More slamming. More failed attempts to break Osyrus’s face.
When Bershad calmed down, he looked down at his foot and saw the wound was already healing—open flesh knitting back together and starting to scab. But the hole in his thigh was leaking blood onto the table like any normal wound.
“Fascinating,” murmured Osyrus. “Do you know what that means?”
“I am going to rip your lungs out, old man.”
“The Gods Moss left your system hours ago, but the accelerated capacity for rejuvenation remains in the new limb. Extraordinary. Of course, there’s no way to know how long it will last without careful observation. Could be days or weeks. It could be forever.”
He moved back to the fire and started writing excitedly in his notebook again. Bershad just lay there breathing, trying not to lose his composure. He was going to die in this dungeon.
Osyrus finished his note. “You came down here for answers,” he said. “You have already resolved many questions of mine; it’s only fair that I answer some of yours. There is no reason we can’t be civilized about this.”
“Civilized? You just cut off my fucking foot.”
“And then helped you grow a new one. A better one, even! But if you’d prefer to continue as we have, that is fine with me. I was only trying to be polite.”
Bershad swallowed. Took a few breaths. If he was going to die down here, he wanted to die knowing what he really was.
“Have you found others like me?”
“Yes.” Osyrus said. “The other seeds taught me many things in their own way, but you’ll teach me more.”
“Seeds?”
“That’s what I call people like you. Everything needs a name, after all.” He cleared his throat. “You spent time in dragon warrens as a child, yes?”
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