Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  “What happened to Wallace?”

  “Ashlyn killed him.”

  Simeon laughed. “Of course she did.”

  “They remind me of the Line of Lornar,” said Vera.

  “You’ve seen the Line?” Simeon asked.

  Vera nodded. “Crossed it, too.”

  “How’d your time in Skojit country pan out?”

  “I’ve got one less finger than when I went in.”

  “Yeah. That’ll happen.” Simeon adjusted a dangling scale on his armor, which fell out of place again a moment later. “If we survive this deal, I’ll take you all back to the Razors myself and show you around. You’d like it up there, Cabbage.”

  “I would?” Cabbage asked.

  “Definitely. There are these villages in the high hills where the air is so clear you can see straight to Pargos. It’s beautiful.”

  They were all quiet for a moment.

  “Vallen Vergun is going to be waiting for the two of you on the other side of those walls,” said Vera. “If you want to survive this mess, the first thing you’ll need to do is kill him. And I am not sure that’s possible anymore. Osyrus Ward did something to him. He has this … shifting skin. Almost like dragon scales.”

  “Yeah,” said Bershad. “I’m familiar.”

  “What’s your plan?” Vera asked.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “So, no plan?”

  He shrugged. “The thing you learn real quick when you’re killing dragons is that plans tend to go to shit in a hurry. Sometimes it’s better not to have one at all. That way you’re not disappointed when it gets ruined.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that, Silas?”

  “You’re the one who jumps off skyships, Vera.”

  She smiled and shook her head. Oromir and Felgor came up to their position and dropped into the trench. Felgor was dressed in his officer’s uniform and Oromir had a stolen set of Wormwrot armor on, plus the red face paint. Felgor threw a pair of irons to Vera.

  “To apply at your leisure,” he said, then produced a comb from a pocket and started running it through his hair.

  “Is orderly hair a big priority right now?” Vera asked.

  “It’s the little things that matter for these kinds of deceptions. Speaking of which, Vera, I’m going to need you to punch me in the face.”

  She screwed up her face. “Why?”

  “You’ll see, but it’s important.” He leaned forward, pointing to his right cheek. “Right here, if you please. Hard enough so it swells, but not so hard it swells shut.”

  Vera shrugged. Then punched Felgor the face.

  He took the blow with a surprising amount of composure. Pressed against it with two fingers, winced, then nodded approval.

  “Perfect. The little things, Vera! That’s what’ll get us inside the castle.”

  “Thought you said it’s a matter of people making bad decisions when bombs start exploding around them,” said Cabbage.

  Felgor paused. Thought about that. “The big things matter, too.”

  He started combing his hair again, which had been mussed up when Vera punched him.

  “Speaking of bombs, when’s the show starting?”

  Everyone turned to Bershad. He figured it was just about midnight.

  “Right now.”

  Simeon smiled. “Finally.”

  He turned to the bomb that Cabbage had spent the day building specifically for him. It was the size of a beer cask, and sprouting with dozens of tubes and wires. “Get me going, Cabbage.”

  Cabbage started adjusting a bunch of different cranks on the bomb. Bershad signaled Willem, who was in the trench next to them. He then passed the order down to his men. The wardens started prepping weapons and bombs and shields.

  When Cabbage finished, he stepped back. “It’s ready. Any pressure greater than twenty pounds, and it’ll explode.”

  “Well, that’s terrifying,” said Felgor. “Please get it out of this trench.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Simeon put on his helmet, then squatted, shoved the bomb onto one shoulder, and stood. The effort caused his armor to shudder and whine. “See you ugly bastards on the other side of the wall.”

  Simeon climbed out of the trench and started across the field at a trot.

  Bershad turned to Vera. “Let us push into the city a bit before you follow. When you get to Ashlyn, tell her…” He trailed off, struggling with the right words. “Tell her that I’m not going down the river without her. So she best come find me, so we can do it together.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  Felgor smiled. “You know what I’m gonna say. At this point, seems redundant to waste the breath.”

  “Agreed.” Bershad pulled him into an embrace. “Good luck, you fucking thief.”

  Bershad hopped out of the trench and ran toward the walls of Floodhaven.

  The wardens of the Dainwood followed him.

  90

  CASTOR

  City of Floodhaven

  When Osyrus Ward called Castor into one of his castle workshops, he’d assumed some new atrocity had revealed itself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten good news, why expect some now?

  But he’d been wrong. Turned out the Madman had kept his word. There were two hundred freshly crafted tower shields made from dragon bone waiting in one of the lower workshops. Since they were operating on a skeleton crew, that was enough for every man on duty to have one.

  Castor personally managed the distribution. Since Vergun was busy eating corpses in his private chambers, Castor didn’t trust anyone else with the task. When that was done, he headed to Foggy Side, where he planned to find a tavern that was still open and get hammered drunk while lamenting the loss of his ear.

  Those plans were put on hold when a spiral of blue flames hurtled into the air above the main gate. A massive explosion followed. Every nearby shop window shattered. Soldiers ducked for cover in the confusion.

  Alarm bells started ringing. They didn’t stop.

  “Did a skyship crash?” some private asked, brushing broken glass from his hair.

  “We’re under attack, you fool,” Castor hissed.

  “Attack? From who?”

  Castor grabbed him by the top lip of his breastplate. “You better at running than you are at thinking?”

  The idiot nodded.

  “Good. Run back to the castle and grab the first engineer you can find. Tell them to call the armada back to Floodhaven. And tell them I need the commander released from his quarters and sent to station one as fast as possible.”

  The idiot nodded again. “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Good.” Castor drew his sword. “The rest of you, come with me.”

  * * *

  Station one was a crow’s nest built atop the roof of a warehouse that had a clear view of the main gate. By the time Castor got there, it was pure mayhem.

  The gate itself was just a smear of smoking rubble. Masked Jaguars were pouring through the opening with impunity.

  “Where are the acolytes?” Castor asked.

  His question was answered when two war acolytes came around a corner—sprinting headlong at the Jaguars, spikes extending from their arms as they ran.

  With a level of composure that made no sense given the situation, a warden stepped forward to meet them. He threw what appeared to be a brick at the charging acolytes. It bounced once near their feet, then exploded. Turned their legs to ruin.

  That didn’t kill them, but five Jaguars pounced on the wounded acolytes a moment later. Hacking their skulls apart.

  “Shit.”

  More Jaguars were pouring through the hole in the wall with each passing second. There were hundreds of them, and if even half of them carried one of those bombs, this was quickly becoming a fight they couldn’t win. Not with a few scores of Wormwrot spread across the city and caught by surprise.

  The tiny skyship they’d used to intercept Ashlyn at the Gorgon Bridge boomed overhead—making
a quick loop out to the main gate, then turning back to the castle.

  “Ship ain’t gonna help?” asked one of Castor’s men.

  “They’re dropping help off.”

  The sound of Vallen Vergun landing on the warehouse roof behind them sounded like a hundred bones being broken simultaneously, then popped back together again a second later.

  “Commander,” said Castor. “We have a problem.”

  Vergun scanned the battle below. More acolytes had come charging down one of the avenues and been turned to chowder for their trouble.

  “Might be you should go down there?” Castor offered.

  Vergun studied the battle a moment longer.

  “No.”

  Castor frowned. “Why not?”

  Vergun motioned to the gaping hole in the city wall.

  “Because right now the Jaguars still have the ability to retreat.”

  Vergun produced one of Ward’s needles from an inner pocket of his leathers and injected it into his neck. A wave of black scales shuddered across his skin, then disappeared.

  “Take that away from them. Then I will kill them all.”

  91

  BRUTUS

  The Northern Atlas Coast

  After Brutus had been cheated out of a cushier posting by that asshole officer with the tiny teeth, he’d resigned himself to dying in a skyship crash out over the jungle. But it turned out Aeternita’s luck was on his side after all.

  A week after the swindling, his commanding officer had been snatched off a skyship deck by some horrific yellow dragon covered in poisonous spines. That had been unfortunate for his commander, of course, but since Brutus had seen the incident up close—far closer than he would have preferred—he was tasked with writing and submitting the incident report. When he submitted the report, he also bribed the clerk a hundred silvers to look the other way when he filed a transfer for himself in his commander’s name.

  With the war on, nobody had noticed the request came from a dead man.

  Brutus had spent the last month patrolling the peaceful cities of northern Almira on a coastal cutter, enjoying the summer sun and getting fat off their ample rations. These cities had already endured pacification drops early in the war, so they weren’t itching to cause problems. Other than a sudden but temporary failure of their navigation systems a few days back, it had been uneventful in the best possible way.

  There were only two substantial drawbacks to the posting. The first was their acolyte, Number 799, who loomed relentlessly on the deck, never speaking and barely moving. Damn thing was the only factor preventing their whole crew from escaping this war entirely.

  The second was the terrifying noises that occasionally drifted up from the cargo holds, where they kept three-score of the Madman’s feral acolytes, ready to be released onto the coastal cities in the event of a rebellion. Those sounds gave him nightmares.

  But Brutus’s long string of easy duty ended when an emergency signal called them back to Floodhaven.

  Apparently, the city was under attack.

  “What are the idiots thinking?” asked his captain, a man named Copana. Most captains assigned to soft duty had earned it from successful combat drops, but Copana had earned his posting through good old-fashioned nepotism. He was son to some famous engineer on Ward’s team. Lucky bastard had never laid eyes on the Dainwood.

  “Sorry, sir?” Brutus asked.

  “They show nearly impeccable combat discipline for months—never giving us more than a glimpse at their backsides from the sky—and then they decide to storm the capital. What did they think was going to happen?”

  “No idea, sir.” Brutus scanned the horizons. “I’m just glad there aren’t any dragons to deal with.”

  “I don’t know, it would be exciting to see a few of the really big ones, at least,” said Copana. “All my life, I’ve heard stories about how Almira was teeming with the creatures, then I get stuck on the Atlas Coast, where the Madman’s harvesting skyships have already killed them all. I’ve been lucky to spot a few of those seafaring breeds from a great distance.”

  “Trust me, sir, a great distance away is where you want the great lizards to be.”

  “I suppose. Still, I’d have liked to see just one up close. Something to remember when I retire to Burz-al-dun.” He gave a wistful sigh. “Anyway, set a course for Floodhaven. Full burn. Wouldn’t want to arrive late and miss the massacre.”

  92

  CABBAGE

  Gates of Floodhaven

  Cabbage had tripped on his way through the breach of Floodhaven’s wall and dropped his sword. Felt like he’d damn near broken his toe, too, and he’d gotten a face full of dust and debris for good measure.

  By the time he’d gotten up, wiped the crap out of his eyes, found his sword, and gotten his bearings, the Jaguars had taken control of the area. There were three exploded grayskins that he could see. The few Wormwrot who were still alive had dropped their weapons and were running away, deeper into the city.

  Despite the strong start, nobody was whooping victory cries yet. Willem stalked up and down the line, barking orders to his wardens and moving them into defensive positions around the different streets. Bershad and Simeon were nearby, both already covered in blood.

  “Raise your sword if you’ve still got a bomb!” Willem called.

  About half the men raised their blades, Cabbage included. That wasn’t bad, but it could have been a lot better, seeing as they’d only made it a hundred strides into the city.

  Cabbage reached behind his breastplate and pulled his bomb out, giving the blasting caps a quick once-over to make sure they hadn’t been damaged when he tripped. To his relief, everything looked okay.

  Cabbage hadn’t told Jolan—or anyone else, for that matter—but he’d doubled the reinforcements on his bomb to lower the chances of an accidental trigger, which was quite a bit higher than he or Jolan cared to admit.

  After doing that, Cabbage had felt selfish and craven, so he’d gone back and tripled the explosive material, too. Figured that evened things out.

  “Why isn’t your sword wet, Cabbage?” growled Simeon, coming over.

  “I fell down coming through the breach.”

  “Course you fucking did.” He grabbed him by the back of his breastplate. “Stick with me. I’ll make sure you get a chance to dampen the thing.”

  Simeon practically carried him over to Bershad and Willem. “What’s next?” he asked, pulling off his helmet with a click and hiss.

  “They cleared out in an awful hurry,” said Willem. “Might be we were right, they don’t have the numbers so they’re pulling back.” He shrugged. “Might also be a trap.”

  “Might be both,” said Bershad, scanning the rooftops and roadways with suspicion.

  “We could scout up ahead,” Willem offered. “Get a feel for things.”

  Bershad shook his head. “The more slow and subtle we are, the harder it’ll be for Vera and the others to get into the castle. We need their attention. All their attention.”

  “Guess we’re storming forward then?” Willem asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Excellent,” said Simeon, as if he’d just learned a tavern kitchen was serving his favorite meal for dinner. “I’ll lead things.”

  Bershad stopped him with the spear. “Not this time, Simeon.”

  “Huh?”

  “Need you to do something else.”

  “What else is there?”

  “This whole fucking war, you’ve been bitching that you’re always the bait. It’s time to switch things up.”

  “But I—”

  Bershad yanked Simeon close, then muttered a few quick words that Cabbage couldn’t hear. Whatever he said, it was enough to make Simeon’s face go serious. He nodded. Pulled his helmet back on, then trotted down one of the side streets alone.

  “The rest of you are on me,” said Bershad, heading down the main road.

  Cabbage couldn’t see the wisdom in separating Simeon from the rest
of the army, but he also didn’t have a choice but to follow Bershad. So that’s what he did.

  They moved down the main street with a purpose. Cabbage did his best to check the shadowy nooks and alcoves for hiding enemies, but the city was mostly deserted. The few people that he did see in the windows were clearly civilians, huddled under tables and behind chairs, hiding from the chaos.

  Cabbage thought back to his last visit, when the streets had been crowded with soldiers and skyship crewmen and acolytes. Bershad had been right—Osyrus Ward must have emptied the city to make up for the mess Ashlyn made at the Gorgon.

  Eventually, they reached a big square, where seven roads intersected. There was no sign of Wormwrot defending the place, so the Jaguars funneled into the square quickly. Cabbage looked around. Remembered the acolyte who had loomed eternal in the center of the square. His stomach churned with panic when he saw a figure standing in the same place.

  But this wasn’t an acolyte. It was a regular-sized man with long, snow-white hair. He was wearing black leathers and smiling, which didn’t make sense to Cabbage seeing as he was facing down an army alone.

  Vallen Vergun. Had to be.

  “Hello, my muddy-haired friends,” he said, scanning their ranks. “I would like a word with Silas—”

  Bershad came hurtling out of their line at speed, his spear tucked and shield raised. The sight of the charging dragonslayer seemed to give Vergun an immense amount of pleasure. Probably because while Bershad was sprinting across the open square, Vergun’s right arm was transforming into the familiar and horrible shape of a black dragon claw.

  Vergun gave Bershad a lazy backhand with the claw, which caught him on the shield and sent him flying. He sailed over Cabbage’s head and landed somewhere behind him with a crunch and clatter.

  “Idiot never learns, does he?” Vergun muttered.

  “Bolts!” Willem shouted, raising his own crossbow as he gave the order.

  Twenty or so bolts slammed into Vergun’s leathers. And all twenty of them shattered on impact, as if they were built from glass instead of iron and oak.