Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  There was a rumble in the distance. The familiar churn of the Blue Sparrow’s engines. A moment later, the skyship rose over a southern cliff and moved toward their position.

  Since the Sparrow had no weapons and light armor, it was the only skyship that Osyrus was willing to spare for missions like this one. All of the others were on endless patrols and combat drops in the Dainwood, or hovering eternally over a city of Terra, threatening them into good behavior.

  Garret headed to the skyship. Vera followed, realizing that this was the first time she’d ever seen the man’s back.

  “Success?” Decimar asked when they came aboard.

  “He’ll deliver.”

  Decimar nodded, then started rattling off orders to his men. They were airborne and heading back to Floodhaven two minutes later.

  The sun still hadn’t risen, and darkness covered their escape.

  3

  BERSHAD

  City of Deepdale

  The heads that Simeon insisted on bringing with him had begun to fester during the journey back to Deepdale. The hulking Skojit approached the city amidst a horde of black flies. The pests didn’t seem to bother Simeon, but they attracted the attention and ire of the wardens camped outside the city as they walked through.

  Kerrigan was due back with another shipment of food from Dunfar, so most of the disparate warden crews that comprised the Jaguar Army had returned to Deepdale to get their rations, then scatter back into the forest and continue the war. It was dangerous to gather in one place, but there were so many Blackjacks in the area surrounding Deepdale that the skyships couldn’t reach the city. Even getting through on foot was dangerous. The Jaguars used secret pathways that were lined with choke weed, which Blackjacks naturally avoided if it grew in high concentrations.

  For the time being, Deepdale was the safest place in the realm of Terra. But when the Blackjacks moved on in a few months, that would all change.

  Bershad saw Willem, who was playing dice with his men while a caiman cooked over a spit, and headed over. There were seven mud totems arranged around the fire with steel scraps in their hands, looking out at the forest.

  “Again with the fucking heads?” Willem asked, frowning at Simeon.

  “Just making war on the Balarians’ minds,” Simeon said.

  “Ever considered that the dragonscale armor you wear is war enough?” Willem asked.

  Simeon seemed to give that real consideration.

  “No. The heads are important.”

  “Why?” Willem asked.

  “Don’t get him started,” Bershad said.

  Willem swatted at some flies that zipped over to the caiman. “Well, do you think you can take your attack on dreams away from our cook fire, at least?”

  Simeon grunted. “You lowlanders have squirrel piss for blood. All of you.”

  The group of veteran soldiers—who’d probably sent a hundred men down the river between them—took the insult in stride. When Simeon saw he couldn’t rile any of them up, he headed off to the outer reaches of the camp with his cargo. His plans for the heads was unclear.

  “Why do you let him do that?” Willem asked.

  “I let you press dead men’s eyes into your mud totems,” Bershad said. “Can’t abide a double standard.”

  “There’s a difference between popping eyes out of dead men and pulling their entire head off, then traveling around with it.”

  “There is,” Bershad agreed. “Simeon would argue that stopping at the eyes isn’t far enough.”

  “Gods, everyone who set foot on that island up north went fucking insane. You should have your brains checked for mushroom rot or something.”

  “Who told you about the mushrooms?”

  “Felgor,” said three wardens at once.

  “Figures.”

  Bershad didn’t know Willem that well, but he knew the man who’d brought him up. Jon Cumberland. He was a veteran who’d served Bershad’s father and carried a strong reputation. Cumberland had been killed by Wormwrot, and from what Bershad could see, Willem was doing his best to fill his shoes. He was the closest thing the Jaguar Army had to a leader.

  Willem rolled the dice. Cursed at the result.

  “Looks like you came back with a haul of your own,” Willem said, pointing at the sack over Bershad’s shoulder, which was full of the lodestones and machinery he’d cut out of the grayskin.

  “Yeah. I’m on my way to Ashlyn now.”

  “She’s been cooped up in the castle with Jolan all morning,” Willem said. “Running experiments.”

  After Fallon’s Roost, Ashlyn and Jolan had retreated from the front lines to try and figure out what had gone wrong. The Deepdale Castle had been the best space for a laboratory.

  “Performing demoncraft, you mean,” muttered a red-haired warden named Sem.

  Willem shrugged. “Experiments. Alchemy. Demoncraft. They’re all just labels for complex systems that require esoteric knowledge to understand.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re spewing back the chewed-up words of your gray-robed friend again.”

  “Repeating Jolan’s words doesn’t make them wrong.”

  “Why’re you so fond of that kid, anyway?” Sem asked.

  “He was with me during the skyship thing last winter.”

  “How’d an alchemist get roped into that goatfuck?”

  “Long story,” Willem said. “And I’m not drunk or depressed enough to tell it.”

  Bershad looked up the hill toward the castle. Frowned. One of the towers was missing.

  “What happened to the northern tower?” he asked.

  “That? Uh, word is something went awry with Ashlyn’s work a few weeks ago. Nobody got hurt, though. Aside from your ancestors’ masonry.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Sem. “In my book, anything that can destroy a castle tower is demoncraft.”

  They continued bickering. Bershad eyed the caiman as it cooked on the spit, his mouth watering. They’d pushed hard getting back to Deepdale, and hadn’t eaten in two days.

  He dropped the sack, went over to the caiman, and drew his dagger.

  “That ain’t done yet,” Willem said.

  Bershad ignored him. Shaved off a long slice of meat and ate it in two big bites. A flood of tender, fishy flavor filled his mouth.

  Eating food always strengthened his connection to the Nomad. He could feel her up in the rafters of the sky, like there was a long string running between them that someone had just thrummed. And he knew she could taste the caiman in her mouth, too. She careened down from the clouds in a tight dive. When she was about two hundred strides from the ground, she opened her wings to kill the descent. Took roost in a massive Daintree that overlooked the camp.

  Some of the nearby wardens dropped their food or drink and scrambled for cover. But most of the men in camp had fought alongside Bershad at one point or another during this war, so they knew about him and the Nomad. A few of them even lifted their drinks in her direction.

  Bershad gave her a look, and she craned her head in response.

  “Don’t even think about giving your pet lizard a share of that caiman,” Willem warned. “I can afford to give the lord of Deepdale a slice of meat, but the dragon’s gotta procure her own meals.”

  “She’s not my pet,” said Bershad.

  “Felgor said otherwise.”

  “Look, as a general rule, just ignore anything that Balarian thief says.”

  “So, her name isn’t Smokey?” Sem asked.

  “She’s a dragon,” Bershad said. “She doesn’t have a name.”

  While they’d been talking, a group of fifteen wardens had come out of the forest. All of them were wearing black Jaguar Masks. The man leading them had long, wild hair that was streaked with mud.

  “Oromir the Black, scourge upon the Balarians!” shouted a visibly drunk warden. “How many Wormwrot this month?”

  Oromir didn’t respond, but he did take off his mask. His left cheek and throat w
ere covered in scars. The top of his left ear was missing.

  “Hey, Oro,” said Willem. “Got a caiman that’s almost ready, if you’re hungry.”

  Willem and Oromir had been with Jolan during the skyship theft gone wrong last winter. From what Bershad had seen, the two wardens had maintained a distant but friendly relationship. But Oromir and Jolan never spoke. Bershad didn’t know exactly why, but knew it had something to do with how Jon Cumberland had died.

  Oromir gave Bershad a cursory glance as he approached the fire, then took a spot across from Willem and produced a bottle of what smelled like brandy mixed with acid. Took a long drink.

  “How’ve you fared?” Willem asked him.

  “Me and my crew tracked three score of Wormwrot over the Green Hills,” Oromir said. “One score managed to get scooped up by a skyship before we could get at ’em. Sent the rest down the river.”

  “You killed forty Wormwrot with fifteen men?” Bershad asked.

  Oromir looked at him. “That’s right.”

  “Any losses on your side?” asked Willem.

  “The skyship that picked up the survivors dropped a grayskin on us.” Oromir took another long sip. “Gunnar wasn’t quick enough melting into the jungle. Got torn apart.”

  Everyone went quiet. Sem started pinching out a mud totem. It could have been for Gunnar’s soul, but it could have been in the hopes of conjuring a similar outcome for his crew in the future.

  Against a grayskin, only losing one man was an excellent result.

  “Any word on the gray-eyed Balarian who killed Cumberland?” Willem asked.

  “His name is Garret,” said Oromir. “And no. Nothing since those men we captured in Salt Marsh said he’s abroad, working for the Madman.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I’ll get him,” Oromir said, with a tone of finality that made Bershad think if this Garret didn’t return to Almira, Oromir would cross the whole realm of Terra to find him.

  “How’d you do?” Oromir asked Willem.

  “Mixed bag. Ran a river-split ambush up north that left more dead on their side than ours, but the margin was thin. We had better luck in the east. Lured a bunch of idiots toward a nest of Blackjacks with the mud totems. They thought they were tracking us down. Got themselves eaten instead.”

  “Morons don’t know the jungle at all,” Sem muttered. “What kind of fools don’t notice they’re walking into a Blackjack nest?”

  “Ghalamarians, judging from their armor.” Willem looked around. “Don’t tell Simeon, though. He’ll go charging off in an attempt to collect more heads.”

  “What’s his problem with Ghalamarians, exactly?” asked Sem.

  “He’s Skojit.”

  “I know he’s Skojit. But what’s his problem?”

  Willem blinked at him. “You’re not really a student of history, are you?”

  “I’m a warden of the Dainwood. Last I checked, history doesn’t help much when you’re sneaking up on assholes in the jungle and stabbing them.”

  “Carlyle Llayawin would have disagreed, then given you a two-hour lecture on crossbows, but seeing as he’s dead and I ain’t no high-warden, let’s just say that any man with Skojit blood in his veins has good cause to hate Ghalamarians and leave it at that. Bastards have spent two hundred years encroaching on their lands.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sem crossed his arms. “In that case, I feel that I’ve got cause to hate the bastards, too. Especially seeing as they drop fresh assholes into the jungle faster than we can kill them. Whole war’s like one man standing beneath a wasp nest, swatting at the bastards one at a time, thinking that’ll eliminate the problem.”

  Willem narrowed his eyes. “Did you just make that up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve never heard you use a metaphor once in your whole fucking life.”

  “Fine, fine. I heard it from that big Lysterian pirate, Goll.” Sem gave a sly smile. “But regurgitating other people’s words don’t make them wrong.”

  Willem waved him off. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Bershad looked around the camp. A lot of familiar faces were missing.

  “What happened to Senlin’s crew?” Bershad asked. “And Uppum?”

  They were both veteran wardens who’d fought with him at Glenlock. Good men.

  Willem winced. “They got tangled up with a grayskin. We found their remains smeared across a whole swath of forest.”

  “Fucking grayskins,” Sem muttered.

  “It’s not just grayskins. Longbowmen did a number on Newt’s and Grant’s crews, too,” Willem muttered. “They got caught trying to cross an open field. Half died, the other half are at the surgery tents up by the castle. For most, those tents are just a waystation before they head down the river. And almost none of ’em recover enough to rejoin the fight.”

  He looked at Bershad, expecting him to say something. But he couldn’t think of anything helpful to say about that news.

  He picked up his sack of grayskin parts. “I need to get these to Ashlyn.”

  “Why’re you even bothering to haul that crap to her anymore?” Oromir asked. “She had her chance with metal and magic last spring, and it went to shit in a real big hurry at Fallon’s Roost.”

  He motioned to the scars on his face, which he’d gotten at Fallon’s Roost.

  “Because things are still going to shit,” Bershad said. “They’re just doing it slower.”

  Bershad headed toward the city. The Nomad moved with him, hopping onto a large Daintree that grew near the city walls.

  There was a group of hawkers bringing wares to the camp. Deepdale folk were used to Blackjacks in the general area, but not enormous Gray-Winged Nomads at their walls. They dropped their wares and scattered. One man with a loud voice sprinted back through the city gates, screaming for them to be closed.

  “Think you better give me some distance,” Bershad said to the Nomad.

  She snorted from her spot on the branches. Looked to the castle, then back at him.

  “I’m sure Ashlyn wants to see you, too. She’s only got seventy sketches of you, so hitting seventy-one is most definitely a high priority. But there’s the issue of widespread panic and alarm if you follow me into the city.”

  The Nomad licked her jowls. Sniffed at the fruit of a mango tree that was growing alongside the Dainwood.

  “Yeah, eat some fruit while you wait.” He paused. The fruity scent of the mango was filling his own nose, along with the Nomad’s. “Smells ripe.”

  She gave him an irritated look.

  “Okay, okay. That one’s not quite ripe. But just wait here and don’t eat any people.”

  The dragon let out one final, irritated snort, then settled herself into the canopy.

  “Good enough.”

  * * *

  As soon as Bershad was behind Deepdale’s walls, he felt an itchy discomfort sprawl across his skin like the first sign of a bad rash coming on. Cities always did that to him, even ones that had been built and ruled by his ancestors.

  He headed up Canal Street, toward the castle. The street was named after the canal that ran alongside it, which was fed by a deep lake in the middle of the city. The water smelled of moss and algae and fresh rain.

  Armorers and craftsmen were waiting outside their shops along Canal Street, trying to drum up business from anyone passing by. They recognized him as he passed.

  “Lord Bershad, is today the day I can finally convince you to try my wares?” said the cobbler with a smile, eyeing Bershad’s bare feet.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Ah.” He waved the notion away. “Sometimes I fear you’ll start a trend and put me out of business. I make a totem every night to honor the thornbushes and scorpions to keep my trade going.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  The armorer asked for another look at his dragon-bone shield and Naga spear. Praised the craftsmanship, as always.

  “Who made it?” he asked for the fiftieth time.

  Bershad shook his
head. “That’s a long story, and I’m already late.”

  He continued uphill until he reached the lake. There was a girl fishing along one bank.

  “Catch anything?” he asked.

  The girl looked up, then quickly stiffened when she saw who’d come up behind her.

  “Lord Silas,” she said, starting to dip into a bow.

  “Better focus on your fishing,” he said, halting the formalities. When he was younger, Bershad had never liked the ass-kissing that came with being a lord. But now—after all his years outside, without a roof or a kind eye for leagues—he hated it. Felt like someone was selling him a lump of crap and calling it sugar.

  “Right,” the girl said, turning her attention back to the rod and resuming her slow reel. “My sister saw the paku trawling the shallows of this bank last night. I’m hoping he’s still nearby, so I can catch him for my customers.”

  The paku was actually lurking in some heavy reeds around the little island in the middle of the lake, his fishy pulse slow and relaxed. But Bershad figured that if the girl wanted that fish, she’d need to find it on her own. Only fair.

  “Customers?” Bershad asked. “You a fishmonger?”

  “Please,” said the girl. “I run the Cat’s Eye tavern, up on the shady side of the canal.”

  “You’re a little young to be running taverns, aren’t you?” Bershad asked. The girl looked like she’d seen about ten summers.

  “Well, I don’t run it by myself, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Bershad agreed. “What’s your name?”

  “Grittle.”

  “Grittle? That short for something?”

  “No.” She gave him a look. “My sister says us simple folk don’t need to bother with bulky names.”

  “I see.”

  Grittle sighed, and started reeling her line in with a purpose. “I don’t think that fish is in my future. Not today, anyway. But I have a fresh batch of rain ale back at the tavern if you’re interested.”

  Bershad shrugged. Ashlyn and Jolan weren’t going anywhere, and he was thirsty. “Sure. Lead the way.”