Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  She made her way to a large coffeehouse on Foggy Side. The roof had been torn off in the battle, but repaired with slats of cut dragon bone. There was a freshly painted sign over the door.

  The Cat’s Eye II

  Inside, Felgor and Goll were at the bar. There was a jug of rum between them, and a young girl behind the bar polishing a glass and listening to them with wide eyes.

  Goll burped. Slammed down an empty cup. “So anyway. The mushroom demon sends Flawless flying through the garden like a pebble skimmed across a lake. He leaves a huge rut in the ground. Course that doesn’t really deter Flawless much. He stands up and he says—this is a direct quote, mind you—he says ‘Hey asshole. Gonna take more than a tap to kill me.’”

  “No!” the girl said, smiling. “He really said that?”

  “He did. Course in that particular situation the heroic deeds were split pretty even across all parties. Right, Felgor?”

  “Incorrect. I pretty much always hold a lion’s share of the heroics,” said Felgor. “And I very rarely receive acknowledgment or compensation for them. Ashlyn Malgrave personally owes me five hundred and seventeen thousand gold pieces.”

  “Don’t listen to these two liars, Grittle,” said an older girl, coming up from the storeroom with a basket of apples. She had a pink scar along one cheek.

  “We’re not lying, Nola!” Felgor said.

  “You’re telling her stories about mushroom demons.”

  “Yes. They were created by an insane alchemist who discovered immortality from these rare mushroom spores that only grow on a distant island in the—”

  “Enough. You’ll give my sister nightmares.”

  “You two causing trouble again?” Vera asked.

  “Oh, hey, Vera. No, we’re just telling stories about Silas. Come have a drink with us.”

  “We have food, too!” said Grittle. “Vegetable pie. Black bread. And all kinds of jams.”

  “Vegetable this. Bread that. What kind of tavern doesn’t serve meat?” Goll asked.

  “This kind,” said Nola.

  “Why is that?”

  The older girl’s face changed. “We just don’t.”

  Goll seemed to recognize the shift in her tone. “Sorry. The jam is delicious.”

  Vera took a seat at the bar. Motioned to Grittle for a glass.

  “The two of you make for a sorry pair of diplomatic envoys,” she said.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Kerrigan, who was sitting at a table near the window, poring over a ledger. “That is their third jug of rum today.”

  “Lysterians have very high tolerances,” said Goll.

  “And Balarians?”

  “We just like to have a good time,” said Felgor.

  Vera took a sip of the rum, which was full of spices. “Well, whatever the case, this is the last drink. I don’t want you idiots to be hungover when we leave tomorrow.”

  “What’s our first destination?” Goll asked.

  “Pargos,” said Kerrigan from the corner. “Then Dunfar, Ghalamar, Balaria, and Lysteria.”

  “Kira wants to add one more, actually.”

  “Where?”

  “Juno.”

  “The lands beyond Taggarstan?” Goll asked, scratching his head. “I’ve never been fully convinced they exist.”

  He took a big gulp of rum.

  “You just drank a bunch of spices that came from Juno,” said Felgor. “If the spices are real, it stands to reason that the city is, too.”

  Goll studied his jug. “Another one of your proxy laws, is it?”

  “I’m nothing if not consistent,” Felgor said.

  “I’ll add Juno to the list,” said Kerrigan.

  Felgor leaned over the bar, motioning for Grittle to come closer. Then he whispered to her. “See those feathers on Vera’s cloak? She can use those to fly.”

  “Really?”

  “I told you to stop filling my sister’s head with lies,” Nola warned. “Next thing you know she’s going to tar herself with pigeon feathers and jump off my new roof.”

  “It’s true!”

  Nola and Grittle both looked to Vera. “Well, it’s more gliding than flying.”

  “See!”

  “But you need special feathers for it,” Vera continued, looking at Nola. “So don’t get any ideas related to pigeon feathers or rooftops.”

  Grittle nodded solemnly.

  Vera emptied her glass and pushed it across the bar. Stood up. “All right, both of you stop drinking, and be ready to leave tomorrow. Got it?”

  “Aw, come on, Vera, drink with us for a while,” said Felgor. “We’re telling stories about Silas and you’ve got a bunch of good ones.”

  “You do?” Grittle asked, eyes widening with excitement. “Will you tell me one? A true one.”

  Vera hesitated. Felgor refilled her cup and pushed it toward her. Raised his eyebrows.

  Vera sighed. Took the glass. “Fine. But just one.”

  120

  CABBAGE

  Razorback Mountains, Skojit Territory

  After the war, Willem had offered Cabbage a warden’s position in the Dainwood Army. It was some great honor, apparently, since the Jaguars had never allowed a foreigner into their official ranks before. They even introduced him to the carpenter who would carve his mask.

  Cabbage turned it down. He’d made a promise to Simeon that he meant to keep.

  But a month after leaving Almira, huffing his way up yet another windblown peak in the Razorback Mountains, Cabbage was starting to regret his decision.

  “C’mon, Cabbage!” Jovita called from the shelf above. “Thought you were supposed to be some legendary warrior.”

  “Wasn’t this much climbing involved in the war,” he gasped.

  “Well, climbing’s all that’s involved now. Keep up!”

  She disappeared around a ledge.

  They kept on, heading deep into the hinterlands. They’d been stopped by four different Skojit tribes on their way through the mountains. Each time, it had only taken one look at their cargo before they were granted safe passage. One tribe even offered them a shank of goat and directions to good water.

  Simeon had been gone from the Razorbacks for years, but he was still remembered.

  By the time Cabbage caught up with Jovita, she’d laid out a blanket and prepared slices of bread, goat meat, and cheese for dinner. She waved a jug of wine at him as he approached.

  “Thirsty?”

  “Too tired to be thirsty,” he huffed, pulling the sack off his shoulder with a wince and setting it down.

  “I can carry it for a while tomorrow, if you want.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I ain’t squeamish about hauling a head around, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “It’s not that,” said Cabbage.

  Jolan had filled it full of chemicals to prevent a smell, which Simeon would have probably taken offense to, but there was no way he was carrying a rotting head up the mountain.

  “What then?”

  Cabbage stalled for time by jamming a piece of bread into his mouth.

  “It’s my burden to carry, I guess. I’m just thankful you agreed to come along.”

  Jovita shrugged. “I always wanted to travel.” She took in a big breath of air. “The air’s so clear here. So thin. Nothing like the soup of the Dainwood. I love it.”

  “You Almirans are all insane, you know that?”

  “Yeah,” she said pleasantly. “We know.”

  They ate for a while. Cabbage got a fire going. Jovita snuggled into her blanket.

  “You have a spot in particular you need to reach?” she asked. “Not trying to cut things short. I like the mountains. Just curious how much longer I’m gonna have to listen to you huffing and puffing on my backside.”

  “We’re getting close, I think. But I won’t know for sure until we get there.”

  Jovita yawned. “Sounds like some kind of pirate riddle related to buried treasure.”r />
  “We never buried treasure,” said Cabbage. “Ground was too cold for it at Ghost Moth.”

  “Ah, well. The ground’s awfully cold here, too.” She lifted her blanket. “I could use some help staying warm.”

  * * *

  Three days later, they passed the tree line. From there, Cabbage guided them south along the bald ridges, figuring that was his best chance at finding the perfect spot.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A few Red Skulls were circling, but they were far off. Cabbage wasn’t worried.

  Near midday, they cleared a pass, and the flatlands of Ghalamar opened up below them, stretching out for leagues and leagues and leagues. Cabbage thought of all the crimes he and Simeon had comitted in their lives. He still wasn’t sure that he’d deserved to survive. But seeing as he had, he was going to try his hardest to do something good with whatever time he had left.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Definitely.”

  Simeon had been right. He could see all the way to Pargos.

  121

  JOLAN

  Otter Rock Village

  On the morning that Jolan returned to the apothecary at Otter Rock, he woke up an hour before dawn to make the coffee.

  He’d arrived after dark the day before, and slept in the back of the supply cart Ashlyn had given him when he left Floodhaven. His donkey was already grazing around the field, straining against his hobble.

  Jolan got a fire going and put a pot of water over it. The nights were turning colder with each day, and Jolan huddled underneath his blanket, shivering while he waited for the water to heat up. Once it was boiling, he added the coffee grounds. Jolan blew on his hands while it steeped. Added another log to the fire. Listened to his donkey chewing.

  He sipped the coffee while the sun rose over his old home.

  The charred skeleton of the apothecary was still standing. Weeds grew chin high in the main living area. The cast-iron stove and oven was still there, too. He walked around the burned-out building. The donkey followed him.

  Out back, the glass panes of the greenhouse had all been stolen. He’d need to travel to Valmont to purchase replacements.

  Jolan spent the morning clearing the weeds out of the apothecary. He stacked them in little bundles that the donkey happily ate.

  When that was done, he returned to his cart and started unpacking supplies.

  Ten glass vivariums. Five distillation vats. Seventeen beakers of various volumes. Enough rubber hose to wrap around the apothecary a dozen times. And fifty jars of various alchemy ingredients, which he stacked inside the oven for now. He’d build a proper shelf for them later.

  Then he went down to the river and gathered a score of red-shelled snails. Brought them back. Placed each of them in a vivarium.

  Jolan knew that he might have been able to sift through the rubble of Castle Malgrave and recover Osyrus Ward’s antivenom. He didn’t care. He wanted to solve the problem himself. With his own mind. And his own resources. He wanted to finish what he and Morgan Mollevan had started so many years ago. He needed to finish it.

  An hour later, Jolan was squatting in the middle of the apothecary, struggling to get one of the distillation vats adjusted, when a shadow fell.

  He looked up through the rafters. Squinted at a circling dragon.

  “Needle-Throated Verdun,” he muttered. About the same size as the one Silas Bershad had killed on the day they’d first met. Maybe a little bigger.

  Jolan went back to work.

  A few minutes after that, Jolan heard the whicker of an approaching horse. He stopped weeding. Stood. Turned around. His pulse went wild.

  Oromir wasn’t wearing armor. No mask. No sword. Just a pair of simple linens and good traveling boots. He dismounted his horse and crossed the field. Stopped outside the burned-out door frame.

  “I looked for you in Floodhaven. They said you’d gone north.”

  Jolan nodded.

  Oromir put a hand on the door frame. “That was some shit you pulled on the skyship.”

  “I didn’t want you to die.”

  The donkey came up to Oromir. Sniffed his boots. Oromir put a hand on his snout.

  “Did you give this one a name?”

  Jolan swallowed. “Cumberland.”

  Oromir took a breath. Spoke his next words very softly.

  “After he died, I was so angry. At Garret. At Wormwrot. At everything. And I needed a place to put it, so I put it on you. I said such terrible things to you. I’m sorry for them. I’ll always be sorry for them.”

  A tear streamed down Oromir’s cheek.

  “I still remember what it felt like before,” he continued. “And I want to get back to it so badly. It’s all that I want, but I can’t find the path. I’m not sure there is a path left for me.”

  Oromir broke down crying. Wiped the tears from his eyes, but more came pouring down.

  Jolan crossed the room. Put both hands on his shoulders.

  “I’m not sure, either. But we can look for it together.”

  Jolan kissed him. Again and again. Kissed the tears from his cheeks and lips and eyes until his whole mouth was salt.

  “Where do we start?” Oromir whispered.

  “With something easy,” Jolan said. “Your horse needs a name.”

  122

  ASHLYN

  Ruins of Deepdale

  Ashlyn walked to Deepdale alone.

  Kira had been aflutter with worry, trying to force an entourage of wardens to go with her for protection.

  “You just had your arm cut off,” her sister had said. “How will you even feed yourself?”

  Ashlyn had laughed it off and refused any company. The truth was, her left arm hadn’t been very useful for anything besides widespread acts of destruction for a long time now. She was glad to be rid of it.

  And she enjoyed traveling alone. For almost her entire life, she’d been surrounded by other people. Courtesans. Servants. Bodyguards. Solitude had always been a precious and rare commodity. She savored the days of quiet, knowing that when she returned to Floodhaven there would be a lifetime of public projects and bureaucratic meetings waiting for her.

  Ashlyn reached the ruins of Deepdale near sunset.

  Even though the city had only been abandoned for a few months, the jungle had swallowed most of the structures.

  Heavy vines and thick ferns covered the walls—orange and blue and yellow flowers sprouted from the fecund morass, attracting bees and butterflies and zipping hummingbirds with iridescent, green wings. Ashlyn could see the feline shape of a few old jaguar statues along the overgrown walls. She could also see the glowing yellow eyes of living ones, lounging alongside their stone counterparts.

  Ashlyn scanned the sky, where three Nomads were turning slow gyres above the clouds.

  She entered the city through the remnants of the eastern gate, which had been reduced to a bed of soft, rotting wood covered in moss. Headed toward the lake in the middle of the city.

  She passed the skeletons of animals the Nomads had eaten. Deer, tapirs, and okapis. There were also plenty of living animals that were too small to warrant the large dragons’ attention, and they thrived in the city that was devoid of men. Red and blue frogs the size of apples. Clever white-tailed coatis. Half a hundred different species of birds nesting in the collapsed roofs.

  The lake’s water was crystal clear and filled with hundreds of brightly colored fish that swam between the lilies and reeds. Their mouths popped out of the water to snatch at mosquitoes and flies, then disappeared back into the depths. Painted turtles sunned themselves on smooth rocks. Chameleons stood on their shells, hunting butterflies.

  In the middle of the lake, there was an island dominated by willows—their weeping leaves dangling in the current so they swished and shuddered like dancers moving to music.

  Ashlyn raised a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the setting sun.

  She could see the familiar, gray outline o
f the Nomad. She was napping in the wet mud. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

  Ashlyn pulled off her boots and clothes, then waded into the lake up to her ankles. The fish darted away from her, and the disturbance was enough to wake the sleeping dragon, who rolled farther onto her back and considered Ashlyn from an upside-down, lazy posture.

  “I see you’re still quite the terror,” Ashlyn called.

  The dragon licked her lips. Snorted. Closed her eyes again.

  There was another flicker of movement in the trees. A familiar silhouette.

  Silas Bershad walked out of the shadows and smiled at her.

  Ashlyn didn’t regret the changes she’d made to him in the Heart of the Soul Sea. In that moment, she would have done anything to save him. To let him finish his life in the quiet and peace that he’d been denied for so many years. To let him be surrounded by the animals that he loved, and hidden away from the people he disdained.

  Hidden away from everyone except for her.

  Ashlyn dove into the clear water and swam toward the island.

  THE ANIMALS OF DEEPDALE

  (Orally recited by Silas Bershad, Recorded by Ashlyn Malgrave)

  The Chickens

  Those terrorists live in the ruins of Nola’s old tavern. Little squawkers turned the whole attic into their private coop.

  There are five of ’em. The two white ones are Sun and Snow. They’re sweet. The brown one is Cranberry, because she’ll throw a huge fuss if you don’t bring her some berries at least once a week. The yellow one’s Dimwit, on account of her getting trapped underneath the stairs on a regular basis.

  And then there’s Witch Queen. She’s the black one who runs the whole show.

  Ashlyn’s Note: I do not love the fact that—of all the animals who have moved into the ruins—Silas decided to name a chicken after me.