Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  “Kill the widows!” Linkon shouted. “Then bring me the witch’s head!”

  The wardens bellowed a cacophony of war cries. Banged their swords and spears against shields. A chant rippled through the lines.

  “Kill the witch! Kill the witch! Kill the witch!”

  43

  BERSHAD

  Almira, Floodhaven

  Bershad and Felgor were about to reach the ramparts when the second blast of white light filled the sky. The archers on the wall crunched their eyes closed. Twisted their faces away. One of them loosed his half-drawn arrow, plunking it an inch from his own foot. Bershad sprinted to the top of the wall and looked out.

  Ashlyn was crouched alone in the middle of the field with lightning arcing around her. She looked hurt. A large circle of blackened grass stretched around her, and several hundred Papyrian widows were rushing to protect their queen. Past Ashlyn, an entire army had been massacred near the tree line. The few wardens who remained alive were busy running away—swords dropped in the grass, men’s backs disappearing into the woods.

  “That her?” Felgor asked.

  “That’s her.”

  “You didn’t mention the, uh, lightning thing.”

  “It’s new.”

  Bershad tried to absorb the situation. There were several thousand wardens in turtle masks standing in tight formation beneath the shadow of the wall. Each man carried a spear, sword, and shield. There were also a few columns of Malgrave eagles, about four hundred men. Everyone looked ready to run as far away from Ashlyn Malgrave as possible. The sound and smell of burning grass and flesh was everywhere.

  A man in a turtle mask who was riding a white destrier called out above the din. At first, his words got lost in the shouts and cheers from his men, but the last part reached the ramparts loud and clear.

  “Kill the widows! Then bring me the witch’s head!”

  The man’s wardens charged across the field. As soon as the wardens left the shadow of the wall, the rider signaled for the gate to be opened, and disappeared underneath. The Malgrave eagles stayed where they were. A high-warden with an orange slash down the middle of his eagle’s mask moved to the front of the column. It took Bershad a moment to realize it was Carlyle Llayawin—the man who’d led him into Floodhaven. He drew his sword.

  “Dunno about the rest of you!” Carlyle called. “But I swore an oath to protect Ashlyn Malgrave. Didn’t swear shit to Linkon fucking Pommol. Agreed?”

  The men behind the officer slammed the butts of their swords into their shields, creating a single, unified boom.

  “Aye,” Carlyle said. “Best get to work then.”

  The eagles charged, lagging behind the turtles by a few hundred strides. They were outnumbered three to one, but if the widows could hold off the attack long enough for the Malgrave wardens to hit them from behind, they had a chance.

  “I’m going down there,” Bershad said. “You need to get as far from here as possible.”

  “Not happening,” Felgor said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not repeating the whole ‘you’ve done your part, save yourself’ thing. We covered that already. You and I are in the shit together now. I’ll go steal another boat for us. Just tell me where I should wait for you.”

  “Felgor, there’s no time.”

  “Totally agree. So answer me.”

  Bershad looked at Felgor’s face and saw he wasn’t going to budge. “Fine. Just north of the city there’s a harbor with a white domed rock at the mouth. Wait for me there.”

  Bershad didn’t think there was much chance of him making it to that harbor alive, but at least it got Felgor out of the city.

  “Archers, Carlyle and his wardens betray Lord Pommol!” a sergeant shouted from farther down the rampart, pointing at the eagles. “Fire on those bastards at my command!”

  “Fuck,” Bershad muttered, twisting around to see the archers lining up on the wall. “I’ll meet you in that harbor, Felgor. Now go!”

  Bershad started sprinting down the line, rushing to the sergeant. Ten paces away.

  “Nock your arrows!” the sergeant shouted.

  Five paces.

  “Draw!”

  Bershad grabbed the sergeant’s head and slammed it into the rampart, then threw him over the wall. Watched his body bounce on the field below. It was a fifty-stride drop, at least. The archer next to him turned, face twisted into a snarl. Bow rotating around to Bershad’s chest.

  “Shoot the dragonslayer!” he shouted.

  Bershad punched the archer in the throat, sending him reeling backward into the man next to him. Then he jumped off the wall.

  44

  GARRET

  Almira, Floodhaven

  Garret charged with Linkon’s men. The first volley from the widows’ slings came when they were two hundred strides away from the queen. A whooshing sound followed by an eerie silence. Garret slowed down and ducked behind a wide-shouldered warden, whose head promptly exploded. Garret picked up the dead man’s shield and rushed to get inside the range of the horrific weapons. They’d cleared another fifty strides before the second volley was released.

  “Shields up!” Garret called. “Shields up!”

  Garret felt the shock of four shots thumping into his shield, then lowered it and kept moving. There wouldn’t be time for a third volley.

  As they closed in, the widows broke their circle and formed a defensive formation shaped like a large horseshoe that was just wide enough to make flanking them difficult. For bodyguards, the widows operated well in a pitched battle.

  The grass beneath Garret’s feet changed to charred black. He reached the widows’ line at a dead run and locked blades with a tall Papyrian. She tried to knee him between the thighs and when that didn’t work, she spat in his eye. Garret crossed blades with her a few more times, realized he was outmatched, then ducked beneath a slash of her steel and rolled backward, abandoning the duel and retreating behind the wardens’ line.

  Garret had only been hired to kill one woman today. No sense risking his life against a hopelessly outnumbered force of widows. That’s what Linkon’s men were there for.

  He still couldn’t see Ashlyn, but he didn’t see any more lightning snapping across the field, either. Good. Garret just needed to wait for Linkon’s men to break through the widows’ line and this would be over.

  But when Garret reached the back of the column, instead of finding an empty, safe field like he’d expected, he slammed into a charging warden wearing an eagle mask with an orange slash down the middle. Garret was so surprised that he barely managed to dodge the warden’s first strike, and when the Almiran rammed the pommel of his sword forward, Garret took the hit on the temple.

  Everything went black.

  45

  BERSHAD

  Almira, Floodhaven

  Bershad didn’t wait for his shattered foot and ruined knee to heal before he started charging across the field. His muscles and tendons shrieked with pain for the first ten strides, but both legs were repaired before he’d left the shadow of Floodhaven’s wall.

  Two arrows snapped into the ground to his left. Then three more thumped into his thigh, back, and neck. Bershad stumbled, regained his footing, and tore the arrows out of his neck and thigh. Felt the wounds close. Nothing he could do about the one in his back besides leave it there and hope it wasn’t deep enough to kill him.

  Up ahead, Carlyle and his wardens had attacked Pommol’s men at a full charge, turning the tide of the battle. Instead of a one-sided slaughter, everything was confusion and chaos. Bershad got behind one of Pommol’s spearmen, drew the man’s sword from his hip, and stabbed him through the spine, lifting his boots off the ground. The man next to him jolted in surprise. Bershad hacked his forehead open and snatched his spear.

  Bershad shoved and stabbed and speared at the turtle wardens. Without armor on, he caught a dozen different wounds in the few seconds he spent pushing through the battle. Most of them were outside the places that Osy
rus had changed, so they didn’t heal right away. He was nearly past the fray when someone slammed a shield into the side of his head and put him on his back. The warden raised his spear, snarling and preparing to push it through Bershad’s heart.

  There was a blur of black leather behind the warden, and his throat opened. The man tried to breathe. Tried to speak. Then he fell onto his back and died.

  The widows were everywhere. Wardens were being pelted and stabbed and strangled. Others stumbled around, disoriented and gushing blood from puncture wounds at the seams of their armor—groins, armpits, throats.

  Bershad had lost his sword when he fell, but half of the spear was still in his hand. He got up and continued pushing toward Ashlyn, his wounds shrieking at him. Almost there.

  46

  GARRET

  Almira, Floodhaven

  Garret regained consciousness after someone stomped on his stomach with a steel boot. The turtle mask he’d been wearing was gone. His nose was broken and one of his teeth had been knocked out. Garret ignored the pain. Looked around.

  Pommol’s wardens had lost the upper hand. The eagles had taken them by surprise and were carving through the back of their line. If they met the widows in the middle, this battle would be over. Garret moved through the fray, staying low. Past the heavy fighting, thirty widows had encircled Ashlyn in a tight barrier. A score of Pommol’s men had cleared the main battle and were harrying the circle with swords and spears, but failing to penetrate the wall. Garret didn’t need to break through—he just needed one moment with a clear view of Ashlyn’s throat.

  He roamed the circle of widows like a jackal searching for a weak ness in the pack. Every few seconds their formation would shift and a widow would fire her sling from a gap in the wall of black leather, pegging a warden in the face or throat. Pommol’s spearmen rushed forward one at a time or in small groups to attack, but they all stumbled away, bleeding from three or four puncture wounds.

  Garret kept moving. Bided his time. Eyes focused.

  He caught sight of Ashlyn’s pale neck. Planted his feet. Threw. Felt the noose catch. Tugged once to tighten. Then heaved with all the strength he had left. Ashlyn Malgrave flew out of the circle of widows and landed at his feet. The pull hadn’t broken her neck for some reason, but that didn’t matter. He had her now.

  Garret drew the hunting knife from his belt. Just before he was going to plunge it into Ashlyn’s heart, he was stopped by the sound of an animal growl.

  47

  BERSHAD

  Almira, Floodhaven

  Bershad collided at a full run with the man who was holding a noose around Ashlyn’s throat. His spear popped through the man’s stomach and sent him tumbling onto a pile of smoking bodies. No time to finish the bastard off—Ashlyn was choking. He turned around and knelt at her side, slipping his fingers beneath the hemp rope and tugging it loose. She sucked in a long, sharp breath. Steam poured out of her mouth and nose when she released it.

  She was still alive. Bershad touched Ashlyn’s cheek. Her skin was burning. One of her hands was covered with blood and moss, the other was clutching that translucent strand.

  “Silas?” Ashlyn squinted at him. Confused. “How did you get here?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now.” Bershad looked around. The man he’d stabbed with the spear was gone. “We need to get you out of here.”

  Bershad moved to stand up, but was stopped by a searing pain in his side. There was a hunting dagger hilt-deep in the side of his chest.

  “Shit.”

  Two widows were rushing toward them. One of them had a forked scar running across her mouth, and the other one was Hayden, who was swinging her sling over her head, eyes focused on Bershad.

  “Hayden, wait!”

  Too late. She released the shot. Bershad heard a wet impact behind him. When he turned around a warden wearing a turtle’s mask was on the ground twitching. There was a gaping hole in his chest.

  Bershad picked up the dead warden’s sword and shield, wincing at the awful pain in his side. He searched for another turtle to kill but couldn’t find one. There were only widows and eagle wardens left standing. Nobody celebrated. Just looked around, breathing hard. Waiting. The blackened grass was littered with corpses.

  The gates of Floodhaven opened and more wardens poured out—a myriad of different animal masks on their faces, swords drawn.

  “Are those your wardens?” Bershad asked Ashlyn.

  “The only loyal wardens I have left are standing on this field with me,” Ashlyn said, struggling to stand up. She was still dazed.

  “Then we have a problem.”

  It was too many to fight. Far too many. But if Bershad was going to die somewhere, this was where he wanted to do it. He got in front of Ashlyn and raised his shield. Without orders, the remaining eagle wardens lined up next to him. Carlyle Llayawin was among them—the orange slash on his eagle mask was hard to see through all the splashed blood.

  He gave Bershad a firm nod. “Don’t know how you got here, but it’s good to see you again, Lord Bershad.”

  “Likewise.”

  The widows got behind them and started swinging slings over their heads.

  “Make every shot count!” Hayden called.

  The other wardens charged, weapons high. Bershad could see the different-colored scales and snouts of their masks. Hear their chain mail rattling. He tightened his grip on the sword. Focused on the warden at the head of the attack—a tall bastard with a double-headed axe and round shield. Bershad could get him, at least. Maybe two or three more.

  Something crackled over Bershad’s shoulder, then a bolt of lightning jolted into the man with the two-headed axe. He froze, then exploded. Blood and bones burst outward. His shield hit the man next to him and sent him cartwheeling sideways from the force.

  Hundreds of weaker lightning tendrils radiated from Ashlyn’s arm, turning the charging army rigid. Blood came from Ashlyn’s nose and ears. Her face twisted into a strange mixture of agony and pleasure.

  Her eyes rolled back in her head. The lightning stopped, and Ashlyn fell unconscious onto the grass. Most of the charging men had fallen to the ground, but they weren’t dead. Ashlyn didn’t have the strength to destroy another army, just to slow this one down.

  Bershad picked Ashlyn up, wincing again at the dagger in his chest. It had gotten into his lung for sure. Maybe worse.

  “I can get her out of here,” Bershad said.

  “How?” Hayden asked.

  Bershad motioned north, to a heavy copse of oaks. “Up the coast. Might be I have a boat waiting.”

  As long as Felgor didn’t get himself killed stealing it.

  “We’ll hold them off here,” Carlyle said. “Cover your escape.”

  “No,” Bershad said. “Order your men to scatter. Everyone in different directions.” He looked at Hayden. “Widows, too. The only way Ashlyn survives is if they can’t tell which direction we took her, and guess wrong.”

  “I go with you,” Hayden said. “And three other widows.”

  “Agreed,” Bershad said, eyes on the wardens Ashlyn had stunned. Some were still on the ground, others vomiting on their knees.

  Hayden turned to the widow with a forked scar on her face. An unspoken question passed between them.

  “Empress Okinu will want to keep open eyes in Almira. And drawn blades. My sisters and I will stay.”

  Hayden nodded. “Umbrik’s Glade is not close, but you can lose any pursuers once you reach the Dainwood. So push hard to get across the Gorgon.”

  “Understood,” the widow replied.

  Most of the wardens were standing now. Getting their bearings.

  “Everyone ready?” Bershad asked.

  The wardens and widows grunted affirmation.

  “Now!”

  * * *

  Bershad carried Ashlyn through the woods. He didn’t look back to see if they were being followed, just ran full tilt, hoping they got lucky. After a few hundred paces, the snarls and calls o
f wardens on their trail caught up with them.

  “Faster!” Bershad called. “Keep moving.”

  They cleared the trees and Bershad’s feet hit the white sand of the hidden harbor. He twisted his ankle and fell over. Turned around to see a score of fox-and badger-masked wardens swarming out of the trees. When they were within five strides of Bershad, all of them were killed by a volley of crossbow bolts.

  “What the…” Bershad muttered, turning back to the water.

  Instead of a stolen fishing boat, there was a Papyrian warship waiting in the harbor just off the shore. The gunwale was lined with sailors holding crossbows.

  “Onto the ship!” called a voice with a Papyrian accent.

  Bershad picked Ashlyn up and tried to keep going, but collapsed on the bone-white sand a moment later, heaving air but feeling like he was underwater. The blade in his ribs had done some real damage.

  “Take the queen,” Hayden ordered one of the widows. “I will carry him.”

  Hayden slipped an arm underneath Bershad’s shoulder and picked him up. Bershad stumbled in the shallows and went face-first into the water. Hayden picked him up again.

  “Get me a seashell,” he muttered. This felt like the end somehow.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Hayden said. “We’re almost there.”

  The three widows hauled Ashlyn onto the deck. Then everyone struggled to get Bershad up and over the gunwale. By then, he couldn’t breathe at all.

  “The dagger’s in his lung,” someone said. “Pull it out.”

  “It’s also in his heart. If you pull it out he’ll bleed to death.”

  “Leave it in and he’ll suffocate.”

  Bershad’s vision started going dark. Funny, to have survived so much only to be done in by such a small piece of steel. At least they were close to the sea.

  “Moss,” came a familiar voice. “Get him some fucking moss!”

  Felgor.