Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  50

  BERSHAD

  Outskirts of Deepdale

  The hemp ropes strained as the Nomad hauled the catapult up the last hill before they reached the city. The sun was about to set.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Felgor said, wincing as one of the ropes snapped off into the woods. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Trust me, the Nomad hates it a lot more,” Bershad said. “But we’re almost done. Just need to reach this little clearing.”

  The Nomad snorted. Kept going.

  When the catapult had reached the middle of the clearing, Bershad put a hand on the dragon’s shoulder. “That’s perfect. Right there.”

  The Nomad stopped. Waited patiently while Bershad unstrapped the hemp ropes from her hind legs.

  “Seems like you and her are developing a pretty good rapport,” Felgor said, watching from a distance. “Kinda reminds me of how you were with Alfonso.”

  Bershad stopped working the ropes. A shot of sadness moved through him.

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  Felgor seemed to realize what he’d done. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.”

  “You didn’t dredge them up,” said Bershad. “What happened in Taggarstan is always on my mind. Always fresh. But tonight, Vallen Vergun will pay for what he did.” Bershad threw Felgor a bundle of rope. “Now help me get this rigged up.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, they had the catapult aimed at a small gap in the canopy.

  “What about the trajectory and all?” Felgor said, looking at the hole. “You sure of things on that front?”

  “No.”

  “I thought they trained all the young lords of Almira to run siege engines and do the, uh, calculations or whatever.”

  “I had a career change before I got deep into the mathematics of catapults.”

  “That’s too bad, because it seems to me the aiming of the thing is a critical part of this plan.” He eyed the gap. “Little screwup in any direction, and you’ll wind up impaled by a tree branch.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Bershad said, climbing up into the seat of the catapult and getting situated. He arranged the belt of knives that he’d brought so there was a relatively small chance that a major organ would get impaled on landing. He didn’t want to waste the moss’s strength on injuries he could avoid. This was going to be a long night.

  He gave the Nomad a little nod, and she leapt into the sky, climbing high above the cloud cover within a few seconds. With all the Blackjacks around, Bershad wasn’t worried about her drawing any special attention.

  “I just feel like a slightly larger hole in the canopy is in order here,” Felgor pressed.

  “No time.” Bershad opened the pouch of Gods Moss and ate a large pinch. Felt the strength of it expand in his belly, then radiate through his limbs. He pulled the pouch closed again. Tied it against his right hip.

  “Lever’s over there,” he said, gesturing. “Wait for my signal.”

  Felgor shook his head. Went over to the release.

  Bershad used the Nomad’s senses to locate the patrol on the nearest wall. Waited until they had their backs turned.

  “Now,” he said to Felgor.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to prune that opening a little?”

  “Pull the fucking lever, Felgor.”

  “In a second. This might be the last time we see each other. Got to say some words.”

  Bershad sighed. Felgor pursed his lips. After a good measure of quiet contemplation, he slapped Bershad on the leg and smiled.

  “Try not to die.”

  He pulled the lever. The counterweight plummeted to the ground, and Bershad careened into the air.

  Almost immediately, it became clear that the catapult’s trajectory was screwed up.

  51

  NOLA

  City of Deepdale, the Swine Pens

  Grungar finished his meat. Then he set the plate down in the mud, took the fork, and motioned for the blond-haired man to open the gate again. As the Wormwrot men came inside, everyone moved to the edges of the pen, except for Pern.

  “Nola, behind me,” he hissed.

  “Old man,” said Grungar. “Move.”

  “No.”

  Grungar shrugged. Strode forward.

  Pern coiled his body and threw a quick punch, but Grungar blocked the punch with his bracer. There was a loud, bone-crunching snap. Pern howled in pain. Grungar grabbed him by the head—his meaty hand fitting around the warden’s bald pate like it was a river stone—and threw him down into the mud. The stocky Wormwrot man slammed his shield onto Pern’s back to make sure that he stayed there.

  Grungar turned his attention back to Nola. Held up his fork.

  “Girl pay now.”

  Nola tried to struggle against him as he grabbed her by the throat, but she might as well have been struggling against a Blackjack.

  “Open mouth,” he snarled.

  Nola clamped her jaw shut.

  “Fine. Grungar open it for you.”

  He tapped the fork against her lips. When she pressed her lips tighter, she could taste the remnant of mustard that was still on the prong.

  He wedged the prongs past her lips, and Nola prepared for whatever terrible pain was going to come next.

  52

  BERSHAD

  Above the City of Deepdale

  Bershad’s head slammed into a branch as he flew through the canopy, slicing his forehead down to the bone and sending him dramatically off course as he tumbled erratically through the air.

  He tried to tuck into a ball but the violence of his spinning was forcing his arms and legs apart. His knives went flying from their sheaths. The city below was hard to focus on as he flipped over, details coming and going in rolling fits and starts.

  Bershad had hoped to get lucky and land in a muddy yard or on a thatch roof. Something relatively soft to avoid a slew of broken bones and ruined organs. Instead, he slammed belly-first into the edge of shale roof. Sliced his stomach open on the gutter. He groaned. Struggled to get a grip on the wet shale. Just barely managed to dig two fingers underneath a broken tile and prevent himself from falling.

  “Perfect,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

  While his wounds healed, he tried to get his bearings. He’d cleared the outer walls and armaments by a good distance and landed on the roof of dragon lookout tower about three blocks away from Canal Street. Judging from the lack of an alarm bell, the patrol on the wall hadn’t noticed a man flying into the city, so at least one thing had gone properly.

  He could also sense two heartbeats below him.

  “Did you hear that?” a man asked in Ghalamarian. Bershad smelled roasted beets and garlic on his breath. “Sounded like a catapult.”

  “Naw,” responded another. “That was just a dragon farting.”

  “Very funny.” He coughed. “I think it was a catapult.”

  “Good for you. You gonna throw those dice or what?”

  “Sounded like something hit the roof, too.”

  “Maybe it was a shit, not a fart. And our roof was impacted.”

  “Stop talking about dragonshit, Wump. It’s unpleasant.”

  “Stop hearing made-up noises and toss those dice, Trent.”

  The man muttered something that Bershad didn’t catch. He heard the jostling of bone dice in a palm, followed by the sound of them scattering across a wooden floor.

  “By Aeternita, I’ve got no fucking luck today,” Trent complained.

  Bershad’s fingernails started to strain, but when he tightened his grip on the tile, it snapped free. He slid off the roof and fell about a dozen strides before landing on a little watchmen’s platform and breaking his ass bone.

  “You definitely heard that, right?”

  “Yeah. That, I heard.”

  Someone drew a sword.

  “Let’s check it.”

  Footsteps climbed up the interior of the tower.

  Bers
had reached out to the Nomad while they moved toward him. There was still a lot of city between him and those pigpens, and—unfortunately—a lot more Wormwrot men than he’d realized, cutting competent and tight patrols through the alleys and streets that surrounded the pens.

  Sneaking his way over to the people of Deepdale without being seen would take all night, and he needed to get them out of there with at least a few hours of darkness left so that they could disappear into the Gloom.

  That meant he needed to draw those patrols away.

  The two Wormwrot men had almost reached Bershad. His stomach and ass bone were healed, but his blood was everywhere, so he just stayed where he was, playing dead.

  “Seems we’ve found the source of your sound,” said Wump when he saw Bershad.

  “Yeah,” Trent agreed. “Question is, we got a dead source or a live one?”

  “Awful lot of blood around for him to be alive.” Wump took a step forward. “How’d he get onto the platform?”

  “I told you that I heard a catapult.”

  “Fuck off with that.”

  “You explain it some other way.”

  A pause.

  “I think my idea actually had some merit.”

  “What idea?”

  “Might be a dragon crapped him out.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Dumber than catapulting yourself into the middle of an occupied city?”

  “If he had been crapped out, there’d be shit all over him. I do not see any shit. Do you?”

  “Just check and make sure the flying man is dead, yeah?”

  “Fine.”

  Trent moved forward, creaking the rickety, waterlogged boards of the tower platform. He jabbed Bershad in the shoulder with his sword, cutting deep into the meat of his flesh. Bershad didn’t move.

  “Seems pretty dead,” Trent called. “Guess one of us should go report it to—”

  Trent stopped talking when he saw Bershad’s wound knit itself back together.

  “What the fuck is—”

  Bershad shot up and grabbed Trent’s sword by the blade and ripped it out of his hands.

  “That hurt,” Bershad rasped.

  He batted Trent in the face. Sent him cartwheeling off the platform in a spray of teeth and blood. Trent screamed the entire way down. Landed with a thump and a splash.

  Bershad had lost his grip on the sword when he hit Trent, throwing it somewhere into the city by accident. So he rushed Wump with a purpose, grabbed his face, and slammed him into the far wall of the watchtower hard enough to stun him, but not hard enough to kill him.

  Wump tried to stab at Bershad’s belly, but he was too close for that. Bershad squeezed down on Wump’s fingers until they all broke and he dropped the blade. Then he grabbed his jaw and pressed his fingers into the joint by his ears.

  “Tell me where Vergun is,” he hissed. “Lie to me, and it’s your jawbone that I’ll use to kill him.”

  Wump swallowed. “Castle,” he whispered.

  “It’s an awfully big castle,” Bershad said. “Be specific.”

  “L-Lord’s quarters. That’s where he’s been waiting … for … for…”

  Wump trailed off. Bershad tightened his grip.

  “Say it.”

  “Waiting … for the Flawless Bershad.”

  Bershad smiled. “Well, I’m here. And I’m coming for him.”

  He gave Wump a hard shove, sending the mercenary sprawling across the floor. Then he jumped off the tower, free-falling for a few heartbeats before hitting the cobblestones below at a roll. Both his feet broke, and his shirt got soaked in Trent’s blood. His feet healed in seconds, and he was up again, sprinting toward the castle.

  “Attack!” Wump shouted. “The Flawless Bershad is heading toward the castle!”

  53

  NOLA

  City of Deepdale, the Swine Pens

  Before Grungar had time to pry Nola’s mouth open with the fork, a strange noise snapped in the distance. Nola had never heard a noise like that in her life. But it came from the south and it perked up the ears of Grungar, the Wormwrot men, and all the wardens who shared her pen.

  “Catapult?” whispered Dervis.

  “Yeah,” said another. “Sounded sort of rotted out, though.”

  “Shut mouths,” said Grungar. He dropped Nola and ducked out of the pen, motioning for the other two Wormwrot to follow and shut the gate. When that was done, all of them went still, listening for another occurrence of the sound.

  For a long time, there was nothing. Long enough for Nola to catch her breath and realize that if the sound didn’t happen again, she’d be right back in Grungar’s grasp and that fork would be right back in her mouth.

  Far off, a man yelled. Went silent.

  Then another man shouted, much louder.

  “Attack! The Flawless Bershad is here, and he’s heading toward the castle!”

  “We should go check it out,” said the blond-haired man.

  “Grungar not interested in lizard killer.” He looked back at Nola. “Interested in girl.”

  “Yeah?” asked the blond-haired man. “Well, there’s a ten-thousand- gold-piece bounty on that motherfucker. Still not interested?”

  Grungar seemed to weigh these options very carefully in his head. After some thought, he dropped the fork, which made a plinking sound when it hit the plate in the mud. Drew his sword.

  “Lock pen,” he said. “We go.”

  “Excellent,” said the blond-haired man, taking out a key.

  “What about them?” asked the short man. “Should one of us stay and guard ’em?”

  “You can stay if you want, but this anchor wire can keep a dreadnought in place during a cyclone,” the blond-haired man said, tightening the black wire. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  “Screw ’em, then. Let’s go.”

  The three Wormwrot left the livestock yard. People stayed quiet. Kiko came over and put her hands on Nola’s shoulders. Rubbed them until she stopped shaking.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Nola didn’t see how that was true, but she was too terrified to say anything. She ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking about how much it would hurt to have them pried out.

  “Do you think Lord Silas really came back?” asked Suko.

  “No,” said Dervis. “What’d he do, catapult himself into the city?”

  “Yup.”

  Everyone looked up. The Flawless Bershad melted out of the shadows and walked toward them. He was covered in blood.

  “And now I’m gonna get all of you out of there.”

  54

  BERSHAD

  City of Deepdale, the Swine Pens

  “Any chance you brought the entire Jaguar Army with you?” asked a warden with one arm.

  “I came alone.”

  “Don’t mean to be ungrateful, but how’s this going to work? The city’s full of Wormwrot.”

  “First step is getting you out of these pens,” Bershad said, moving closer.

  He frowned when he saw a plate of venison and an expensive fork on the ground.

  “The hell?” he muttered.

  “That’s Grungar’s dinner,” said a girl who was squatting close to the front of the pen and reeked of fear more than the others. Bershad took a closer look at her. Remembered her from that tavern.

  “Nola, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  The girl paused. “I’m not sure. We had to separate during the attack.”

  Bershad nodded. Put his hands on the cages. “Step back from there.”

  With a belly full of moss, it shouldn’t be a problem to rip them open, even if they had been built to contain Dunfarian swine. But when Bershad planted his feet and gave the gate a powerful yank, the lock and chains around the pen held fast. He gave them a closer look. Saw that they’d been wreathed in black fiber.

  “It’s a skysh
ip anchor,” Nola explained. “Vergun had it done the first day so we couldn’t break out by pushing together.”

  The mention of Vergun turned Bershad’s blood cold. “Vergun’s been down here?”

  “Every day,” Nola whispered. “And he’s done awful things to us while he waited for you to return.”

  “Well, I’m back,” Bershad growled. “And I am going to kill him. But first I’m setting all of you free.” He pointed at the Balarian lock. “Who has the seal for this?”

  “Seal?”

  “It’s a little gray disc that can open these types of locks.”

  “Oh. One of the Wormwrot men. He left with Grungar to go look for you by the castle.”

  “Know his name?” Bershad asked. With the Nomad so close, he’d be able to focus in and pick up scraps of conversations without a problem.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “What’s he smell like?” Bershad asked.

  “Smell?”

  “I need a way to isolate him out from all the other Wormwrot.”

  “Well … I don’t know about his smell … but he has blond hair.”

  “Lysterian?” Bershad asked.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. They all wear that face paint.”

  “Hm.” Bershad had learned that unlike Goll—who always reeked of rum—most Lysterians carried a sweet, vaguely hay-like smell to them.

  Problem was, all Bershad could smell was Trent’s blood, which had soaked through all his clothes. The power of it was overwhelming him and the Nomad. Screwing up her tracking. He unbuttoned his shirt. Pulled it off.

  Better, but not enough. Pants, next.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” asked the one-armed warden.

  “He’s not even wearing a breechcloth,” said a Papyrian woman.

  Bershad ignored them both. Knelt down and pressed his palms into the cool mud. His senses sparked even more, and on the far side of the canal he picked up that distinct Lysterian smell. It belonged to a man who was a little drunk and a little out of breath, jogging toward the castle.

  Bershad snatched up the fork that was laid out on the venison plate. Looked at Nola.

  “I’ll be back with the seal.”