He had a wild expression on his face. Full of fury.
“Jolan?” Garret said, frowning. “Get out of here before—”
Jolan threw a copper orb the size of a baby’s skull at his feet. There was a little metal tab spinning at the top. Garret had seen enough of Ward’s crap to guess what happened once the spinning mechanism stopped. There was no time to untangle the whip from the Skojit, so he disconnected at his wrist and dove behind the skyship’s hull.
There was a loud boom and a bright flash. Garret’s vision failed him.
When it returned, there was a crater of chewed-up earth where the other Wormwrot used to be. The men had been reduced to chunks of meat that were scattered around the crater. The Skojit had been blown onto his back, but not killed. He was trying to stand up. Moving slow. Disoriented.
Garret’s whip was in the crater, about halfway between him and the Skojit.
He darted forward and picked up the whip. Reconnected it with a grunt. The current crackled and simmered, then died.
“Shit.”
He tried again. Same thing. Jolan’s orb must have damaged it.
“Having trouble with the Madman’s toy?” Jolan asked.
Garret turned around to face him. The kid was standing on the far side of the crater. One arm inside a satchel on his hip.
“You got another one of your own toys in there?” he asked.
Jolan took another orb out of the satchel.
“So you work for the Madman now?” he asked. “Just another hired killer fighting for whoever pays?”
“That’s all I’ve ever been, Jolan.”
Jolan’s jaw tensed. “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance. More than anything.”
“I warned you that would happen.”
“You did,” Jolan agreed.
There were shouts to their left. Wormwrot men were starting to come out of the termite mounds. They weren’t moving like victorious men. The Skojit was still on his knees, but his senses were returning. Without a current in the whip, he didn’t have a hope of capturing Ashlyn. Not today.
“If you’re going to throw that thing at me, now’s the time. Take you revenge, Jolan.”
Jolan’s face twisted into a snarl. He spun the gear on top of the orb and threw it at Garret.
The whip might have lost its current, but it was still a whip. Garret snapped the tip at the bomb, sending it straight into the air before it exploded.
38
JOLAN
Dainwood Jungle, Sector Nineteen
Jolan’s vision turned white when the bomb exploded.
When it returned, Garret was gone.
Jolan cursed. Searched for him in the crowd of retreating men. But there were too many painted Wormwrot faces to find him.
Jolan recognized Vallen Vergun—the albino Wormwrot commander Bershad hated so much. He ordered his remaining men into a defensive line with a few barked orders. Bershad and the others stopped about twenty strides from their line.
“That was a clever trick with the masks, Silas,” Vergun called. “Which one are you?”
Bershad stepped forward. Pulled off his mask and dropped it in the mud.
“You and I will settle this alone,” he said.
Vergun smiled. “I’m afraid not, Silas. But I’m glad I got to see your face before the acolytes tear you apart.”
“Call for ’em. See what happens.”
Vallen’s face faltered for a moment. Then he shouted.
“Acolytes!”
Everyone looked toward the warren’s entrance. Jolan’s stomach tensed, knowing that if the acolytes came out of it, everything was over.
But they didn’t come out.
Ashlyn did.
The heads of the six acolytes were floating above her, neck stumps dripping black liquid across the dry grass. Her armbands were churning and steam was rising off her sweat-slick skin. Jolan knew that she probably couldn’t keep that up for more than a minute or two, but in that moment, she looked downright terrifying. A true witch queen.
“Your acolytes cannot help you, Commander Vergun,” she said.
Vergun’s eyes narrowed. His face twisted into a mixture of frustration and rage.
“Back to the skyship!” he yelled.
His men didn’t hesitate to follow the order. The skyship had its engines fully lit and fired before the last Wormwrot man had clambered into the hull. The skyship was airborne twenty seconds later, burning north.
When it was gone, the bands on Ashlyn’s arm froze. The acolyte heads dropped.
Ashlyn collapsed. Put her head between her legs. Vomited.
She spent a few moments taking deep, heavy breaths. When she’d recovered, she wiped her sweat-soaked hair away from her eyes and spun up her bands again. Her lodestones popped out of the acolyte heads and collected in a pile next to her.
Jolan tried to imagine the massive amount of energy and control that had taken—never mind killing them in the first place. He was surprised that she was still alive.
The men of Naga Rock had scattered around the field. Some were clutching injuries. Others were just breathing hard and looking around, glad to be alive. Simeon came over to Jolan and removed his helmet. Even though there was a score of bloody abrasions on his cheek, he was grinning wild and wide.
“You got bigger balls than I gave you credit for, kid.” He clapped Jolan on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward. “Silas! You see what the kid did?”
“Missed it.”
“He threw one of his little orbs into a horde of men and turned them to blackened chunks!” Simeon motioned to the crater behind them. “No hesitation. Screaming like a maniac. Fuck, you looked pissed. It was beautiful. How’d you know it wouldn’t break through my armor?”
“I didn’t.”
For some reason, that made Simeon smile even wider.
Silas trotted over to Ashlyn. Jolan followed. Bent down and offered his canteen to her.
Ashlyn took a long drink, throat bobbing with urgency as she swallowed. Jolan noticed there was a single band still rotating near her wrist. She was still connected to something.
“Did you get it?” Jolan asked.
Ashlyn wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then smiled. Three of her bands spun up to full speed again. A moment later, the harvest acolyte flew out of the warren. It was suspended about a stride off the ground, arms clamped tightly to its torso as if there was an invisible rope wrapped around it.
“Awaiting command,” the acolyte said.
39
CASTOR
Castle Malgrave, Level 31
Neither Vergun nor Garret spoke a single word on the flight back to Floodhaven.
After their ship docked, all of them went to see Osyrus Ward.
They found him in one of his workshops in the middle of the King’s Tower, hunkered over a machine that appeared to be built around an enormous dragonslayer’s horn. A hatch was open on one side, revealing an inner chamber full of glass tubes and wires.
“Ah. Our intrepid warriors have returned,” said Osyrus, putting down his tools. “How did the harvest go?”
Vergun moved to a refreshment table and poured himself a large glass of wine. Downed it in a single gulp. Poured another.
“Your acolytes are dead.”
Osyrus frowned. “How many?”
“All of them.”
Ward’s face darkened. He snapped two of his fingers, which produced a magnetic click due to some rings he had on his fingers. The hatch of the machine closed.
“Explain how that came to pass.”
Vergun polished off the second glass, then slammed it down on the table hard enough to crack it.
“It was a trap.”
“That was a known possibility, which is why I sent you with six war acolytes. That should have been enough to massacre half the Jaguar Army.”
“The witch queen was there. She tore your creatures apart with those orbs of hers.”
Ward glanced at Nebbin
.
“Could she have broken through the countermeasures?” Nebbin asked.
“Anything is possible.” Ward turned to Garret. “But that would not be an issue at all if you had done your job.”
“The whip was damaged before I could reach her. The only option was to fall back.”
“I need more ships,” said Vergun. “They’re still near that warren. I’ll bring a whole company of Wormwrot with me and crush them.”
Osyrus walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of wine, but didn’t drink it. Just swished it around while he thought.
“You will have your ships, Commander Vergun. But your destination will be different.”
“We know where they are.”
Osyrus shook his head. “No, you know where they were. At this point, we must accept that engaging the troublesome cats in their jungle is not effective. It is time to try something new. If Ashlyn has truly found a way around the countermeasures, then she will likely be planning some kind of offensive. I think it best we put her on the defensive before that comes to fruition. Make her desperate. Panicked. That’s the key to capturing her.”
Castor cleared his throat. “How’re we gonna put her on the defensive, exactly?”
“With this.” Osyrus motioned to the machine he had been working on when they came in. “I have been developing an updated version of the beacon Vera used to reach the Eternity.”
“Didn’t that one explode before the job was done?” Castor asked, looking to Garret.
“Yes.”
“That prototype was built in an obscene rush,” said Ward. “This one is much more stable. With this machine installed on a skyship, that impenetrable blanket of troublesome Blackjacks that protect Deepdale will become decidedly less impenetrable.”
“You want us to sack Deepdale?”
“I believe that Silas Bershad will react poorly should his ancestral seat be attacked. He’ll pull the Jaguar Army back, and whatever Ashlyn Malgrave is planning will be crippled.”
Vergun smiled. “Yes. Good.”
While Vergun would obviously do anything to get a chance at killing Silas Bershad, Castor wasn’t convinced.
“We’re gonna be pretty exposed, waiting around for him in a city that’s surrounded by dragons,” said Castor.
Osyrus waved the problem off. “Ballista units are one of the few resources where we enjoy a surplus. Do not worry yourself, Castor. You will be well supplied and well protected.” He paused, then added, “And, as always, exceptionally well paid. Any man who goes will receive a bonus of two thousand gold pieces.”
Castor thought of his Dunfarian island. The clear water. The taste of fresh lobster.
“I’ll go.” He turned to Garret. “What about you, Hangman? It’d be good to have you.”
Garret shook his head. “One way or another, Ashlyn’s path ends in Floodhaven. I’ll be waiting for her here.”
“As you wish,” said Ward. He motioned to the whip. “Give that to me. I’ll repair it at my earliest convenience.”
Garret turned the weapon over, then walked out of the room. Vergun followed him.
But Castor stayed.
“Something to add?” Osyrus asked.
Castor cleared his throat. “Silas Bershad was using a dragon-bone shield during the ambush. Worked real well for him. Given all the extra bones in this city, I was wondering if we can forge some for Wormwrot.”
Osyrus pursed his lips. “That’s possible. There is a treatment process required to deal with the weight that is rather costly and time consuming, but I believe this war will be coming to a head in the near future. Shields will prove useful. I’ll earmark some surplus bone matter for that purpose and have them ready when you return from Deepdale. How’s that?”
Castor nodded. “Works.”
40
NOLA
City of Deepdale, Cat’s Eye Tavern
The smell of freshly cooked bacon wafted through the common room of the Cat’s Eye. Outside, it was raining. The droplets pinged off the rooftops in a gentle and steady cascade. Grittle was eating an extra portion of ribs that Nola had saved for her.
Experiencing those three wonderful things at the same time—the smell of the pork and the sound of the rain and the sight of Grittle eating an extra meal for the first time in a year—was almost enough to counterbalance the vexing presence of Elondron and three of his lieutenants in the Cat’s Eye.
Per their agreement, she’d allowed them to set up an opium-peddling operation in the back half of the tavern, where there was easy access to the alley so they could slip away in the event that one of the few remaining wardens of the city wandered through in a mood for enforcement.
But the real advantage to the Cat’s Eye was that it gave Elondron access to a fresh set of customers.
More than a few of Nola’s regulars had started patronizing the back corner. Dervis, in particular, hadn’t bought any food or drink from her in three days, but he’d been making regular visits to Elondron.
Currently, one of the gang members was recounting a story about beating a man half to death in an alley for fun. Elondron was laughing his ass off.
“Nola, I got a question for you,” said Trotsky, coming over from his table.
She sighed. “Lay it on me.”
“It’s not that I’m opposed to sharing the tavern with folks of different strokes,” he said, giving a little head jerk in Elondron’s direction. “And I’m sure those four have a good reason that they’re laughing in their seats instead of fighting in the war. But why is it they’ve decided to occupy this tavern all of a sudden? And how come you’re not making them pay for their drinks?”
That had been an addendum to her agreement with Elondron. Along with permission to sell black sticky, his men were all drinking their fill of rain ale and potato liquor, when she had it in stock. That was eating into her profits at first, but Elondron had also come through with a stockpile of fresh hops that allowed her to scale production back up to normal amounts, which counteracted the losses.
“Did you enjoy the bacon you ate for breakfast?” Nola asked him.
“Oh, definitely. And I’m not complaining. Just curious why—”
“And did you like the pork loin you had for dinner two nights ago? Or the ribs from last week?”
Trotsky opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“Do the changes make sense now?”
He lowered his voice. “You threw in with a gang? Really?”
“Not like there’s a tree outside my window growing alternative options. This place wasn’t gonna survive on crickets and watered-down rain ale.”
“Ha! I knew you were adding water.”
“But not anymore,” she said, moving over to the cask and pouring a fresh mug for Trotsky. “That one’s on the house, Trot.”
“Aye. On the house.” He gave her a sad look. “Sure thing, Nola.”
As Trotsky ambled back to his table, Nola returned to tallying up the final numbers from the night before and adding them to the ledger. She wasn’t going to have trouble paying Lord Cuspar his next cut. Not at all.
She felt a pang of guilt looking at the health of her ledger, and knowing that so much of the city was still suffering. Still starving. But she shook the feeling off. She was protecting her brothers’ memory. And she was protecting her sister. That was all that mattered right now. She could make up for her mistakes later.
“What’s the matter?” Elondron asked, coming over and thumping an empty mug onto the counter. “You look like you ate a rotten egg or something.”
Nola gave him a look. “Only thing rotten in here is you and yours.”
“Uh-huh.”
He motioned to the mug. Nola swiped it off the counter and filled it. When she came back, she slammed it onto the bar just hard enough to spill some beer on his sleeve.
“C’mon, there’s no need for that. We can be cordial business partners.”
“We’re not business partners. You’re a leech on the insid
e of my leg.”
“Leeches don’t do anything but suck blood.” He looked around the busy room. “I believe me and my sticky have had a positive impact on this place.”
Nola didn’t say anything.
“You know, I’m not so different from you, Nola.”
She gave him a look. “We’re nothing alike.”
He shook his head. Took a big gulp of beer. “You’re just a little behind me in the journey, is all.”
“What journey?”
“You think I want to be the asshole hoarding pigs and selling off black sticky? You think I dreamed of this life when I was a little boy? No.” He leaned in close. “But when the lords and wardens of this fucked-up realm took all the other options for themselves, I did what needed doing to stay alive. And now here I am. That’s the journey, and I see you making good headway.”
“This is just temporary,” said Nola.
“That’s what I told myself, too. Way back. Said I’d change around when things got better. But what you gotta realize is that life never gets better. The desperation … the fight to survive … it never goes away for people like us, Nola. So you best get used to that dirty skin you’re wearing. You can’t change out of it, and it ain’t easy to clean.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Elondron shrugged again. “It’s one of them lessons that takes a while to sink in.”
He shoved off from the bar and headed back to his men.
“Hey, El!” shouted one of his men, a man named Lok. “Watch this!”
Lok threw a broken chair leg at Trotsky’s head.
He hit the old warden in the temple, dropping him to the stone floor with a smack and a clatter. Elondron and Lok started laughing. The other patrons were looking around, startled and trying to figure out what had happened.
Pern was not laughing. And he’d seen exactly what happened. He was out of his chair in a heartbeat, crossing the room with a surprising amount of speed.
He punched Lok in the throat, which paused his laughter with an urgent purpose.
Fury of a Demon Page 25
