Argus reached for the sword once more, but it was useless. He only had time to hold up his hands before that morning star came hurtling down right for his skull.
He rolled to the side, slow, too slow, and closed his eyes…
Then came an impact and the woman grunted. Argus kept rolling, hopeful that if she'd hit something his death would come quickly.
Her weight piled on top of him, squeezing out his breath. Argus opened his eyes. The flamewalker was pale, chanting in the sweet, breathy language of the Comet Tail.
She was burning.
His clothes were burning.
Everything around him was smoke and flame.
Then the woman stopped chanting and slumped so their faces touched, eyes frozen in death.
Argus crawled out from under her. Once he was free, he checked his body for more wounds and found none. He blinked a few times. When he looked at the woman again, she was just as dead as before.
An arrowhead jutted right through her heart.
“Argus!” a voice called. “Are you all right?”
He tried to raise his head and locate the source of the voice, but collapsed on the muddy road instead.
A man and a woman rushed through the carnage, and when they knelt beside him Argus recognized Nasira and Harun. “Gods,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I don't know whether to thank you or curse you both.”
Harun scowled, then prodded Argus with his boot. “I should leave you, you know. Let the Calladonian soldiers come pick you up.”
“They won't take kindly to you killing the flamewalkers,” said Nasira. “Not with Calladon and the Comet Tail Isles being allied.”
Argus groaned. In his bloodlust he'd forgotten all about the empire patrol. They could return at any moment. Or another patrol might find them en route from the capital.
“Help me off the road,” he said.
They looked at each other, exchanging a silent message.
“How did you find me?” Argus asked. “What kind of agreement did you make?”
“Come on, old man,” said Harun. “Let's get you out of here.” He lowered a hand, and when Argus finally accepted that he wouldn't get a shred more of information, he helped him up.
He was weak on his feet, still losing blood from where the morning star had landed. They escorted him over to Harun's horse, which he had somehow recovered. Nasira cut a strip from one of the flamewalker's robes and used it to staunch the bleeding.
Harun quickly looted the corpses, then told Nasira to get on the horse behind Argus. She mounted. He took the reins and walked alongside them, off the road and well into the empty farmland beyond.
The land here had been spared from most of the burning that had engulfed the countryside to the west. But it was desolate. The farmers, fleeing the war, hadn't planted crops for several seasons.
Harun made them keep going no matter how loudly Argus protested. They kept on away from the road, down, down, down until they could no longer see it. They passed abandoned oxcarts and ruined fences and barns. Into the scrub trees they went, freezing without the light of the sun.
They didn't stop until those trees yielded and they arrived in a clearing. A few fishing hovels sprinkled the shoreline around a small pond. Argus stared at the barn between them. Its doors were open, revealing a mound of hay that looked more inviting than the finest featherbed.
“Gods, Harun. Let us rest!”
Harun said nothing, but he reached up and tugged the reins. The horse stopped. Nasira hopped off and they began the arduous process of helping Argus dismount. Finally he was on the ground. He draped his arms over their shoulders and they led him toward the barn, staggering.
Argus didn't know how long that journey took. He must have blacked out somewhere along the way; next thing he knew, he lay on the mound of hay and Nasira hovered over him with a waterskin.
“Here,” she said. “Drink.”
Argus leaned for the waterskin. She put a hand behind his head, steadying him. He drank until the canteen was empty and licked his lips.
“Better?” she asked.
He nodded. She remained hovering over him just as before. Studying him with those amber eyes. Playing a game, no doubt. He was just too exhausted to figure out which.
“Your shoulder looks terrible,” she said, probing it with a fingertip until he winced. “I can heal it. But I'll need those powders you so thoughtfully plundered.”
“They're in the bottom of my pack.” He tried to point outside with his wounded arm, then gave up.
Nasira disappeared. A few moments later she returned with the vials. She opened them, different ones this time, pinching powders onto his wound until everything went numb. Once she had all the ingredients she was looking for, she rubbed the mixture into his wound.
Argus couldn't help but smell them. They filled him with new life, and set his cravings afire. He had half a mind to reach for Reaver and take those powders back by force if need be. Until he realized they'd stripped him of his sword during the journey.
“Where's Reaver?” he asked.
“What?”
“My sword. I need my sword.” Argus crawled up against the side of the barn.
“You'll get it back soon enough.”
He felt the veins throbbing in the side of his neck. He needed Reaver as much as he needed those powders. He was naked without her. The last battle didn't sit well. There was a sense of incompleteness about it. That last flamewalker was mine. I should have gotten to kill her myself.
Then, as if reading his mind, Nasira said, “That was the first person I killed.” She looked down at her hands, which were still trying to rub the powder mixture into Argus's wound but shaking uncontrollably.
“It was a great shot,” Argus said. “Straight and true.”
Nasira nodded, and went back to tending his wound. It would take longer for hers to heal. With a single arrow, she'd crossed a threshold across which she could never return.
“It will get easier,” he told her. “The killing.”
“Will it? Not that I want it to. I don't want to kill anyone at all.”
“You did what you had to do. Otherwise you wouldn't have loosed that arrow.”
Nasira smiled. “I might be naive, but I’m not a complete fool. There's a price to pay for that arrow, Argus.”
He grunted. His curiosity demanded to know what, but he refused to ask and give her the satisfaction. Instead, he said, “I have a feeling we aren't going to Eldhaven.”
Nasira flashed a hint of a smile. “We'll talk more once I have you bandaged up. Now stay still.” She pulled her hand away and picked up a strip of cloth, which she sprinkled with more powders from her satchel. She wrapped it around his shoulder and tied it off. “Better?”
A chill rushed over him where she'd applied the poultice. He nodded. “Sure beats the burning.”
She held out her hand. “Come out by the fire. We have a lot to talk about.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harun had been busy while Nasira tended to Argus's wound.
They walked out of the barn and into the inviting warmth of a fire. The wood was more plentiful in these parts. Harun had a nice flame going, and a stack of extra logs to spare.
“There's the two-faced bastard,” he called.
Argus grumbled as Nasira led him over to the fire. They sat cross-legged and watched Harun roast a pair of fish on a homemade spit.
“Pulled these Court Jesters right out of the pond,” he said, smiling. “One for me, one for the lovely Nasira and—sorry, Argus. Double-crossers have to catch their own meals.”
“Come on,” Argus said. “You would have done the exact same thing if you were in my boots.”
Harun turned the fish, sniffing the air, thinking. “You're probably right. Still a turncoat bastard, though.”
Argus smiled. “That's practically a requirement to join the Legion of the Wind.”
“Fine. Maybe I will give you a bite of the tail.”
Argus didn't push
his luck. He almost mentioned just how much he despised seafood—thirteen years of eating it thrice a day would do that to a man—but after what had happened with the flamewalkers, just being alive was a feast enough.
They watched the fish cook over the crackling fire. No one spoke. By the time Harun pulled off the fish, the meat was crispy and the sun was down. They cut it up, passed it around, and ate in silence. Then Harun threw a few more logs on the fire and they scooted closer against the night chill.
“How did you find this place, Harun?” asked Argus.
He patted his belly, reclined on the grass and said, “Let's just say I met a very nice young woman who used to live in the area. She lives in Eldhaven now—but told me how her village's location spared it the brunt of the destruction.”
Argus wondered how many other tucked away places he'd missed in his travels throughout Calladon. With no people around, it was almost worse that the buildings still stood. A hollowed-out place. Fit for demons and wights.
“I've stayed here several times,” Harun said. “Between bounty hunts and trips to the capital.”
“Except this time we aren't going to Eldhaven,” said Argus. There's a price to pay for that arrow. He hadn't forgotten Nasira's words.
“No,” she said. “We're going to Azmar. And if you're as clever as you make yourself out to be, you'll join us.”
Argus turned to Harun. “Why?”
The Tokati laughed softly and poked at the dwindling fire. “The pay's better this way.”
“Better than five hundred dragons?”
“What's five hundred dragons when an entire war is at stake? I can only imagine how much Lord Syrio or the guilds of Garvahn would pay for what's on that voxtrap. Maybe even those cousins ruling Harlock, though I've heard they're tight with their purse strings.”
“So you do know.”
“I told him,” Nasira said. “I made a deal with Harun that you were too foolish to consider.”
“That's right,” said the Tokati. “But now the sands of fate have offered you another chance—”
“I've had enough of fate!” Argus roared, glaring into the fire. Fate had taken him from hunter to prey to captive. And that was just in the last few hours…
“You can have more dragons than you've ever dreamed of,” Nasira said.
“What are you planning to do?” said Argus. “Just stroll into Syrio's palace and demand he fork over his fortune?”
“No. The message on that voxtrap is getting released regardless. The last thing this world deserves is another war.”
“Then how are we supposed to get paid?”
Harun clapped his hands together. “There! Now you're asking the right question.”
Nasira reached into her pack and pulled out a handful of dragons. She tossed them at Argus, who caught a few as the others scattered to the ground.
“It will take a lot more than that,” he said.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Take a good look at them by the fire. I made those myself.”
Argus got up and did as she asked. He examined the one dragon and five dragon and ten dragon pieces by the firelight, studying both sides and the edges closely. “You made these?”
“That's right. And I can make you and Harun plenty more.”
“How?” He'd seen his share of forgeries, even spent a few weeks apprenticing under an infamous counterfeiter called Symon in Azmar, but had ultimately given up due to a lack of patience. He'd also never encountered forgeries that looked so authentic.
“I've been practicing since I was seven,” she told them. “It isn't exactly part of the artificers' school curriculum. But I knew early on that, with how obsessed people got about money, always having enough of it was important.”
Argus's mouth fell open. It took a lot to shock him with all of the unsavory things he'd seen, but this made the cut. “I don't… I don't understand.”
The Comet Tailer shrugged. “You don't have to. All you need to know is I have a very healthy account at the Builders Bank over on Davos. If you and Harun get me to Azmar, it's worth three thousand dragons to each of you.”
Argus set his jaw and tried not to give anything away. He stared into the fire, considering it.
“What's your reservation?” Harun asked. “This is easier than anything we've done for months, Argus. Find a ship, sail, and collect our dragons.”
“I don't know,” he said, turning to Nasira. “What aren't you telling us? Things are never so simple.”
Nasira tried to hold his gaze, but lowered her eyes and blushed. “I haven't lied to you. You might not know my whole story—”
“I just want to know one thing,” Argus said. “Why are you doing this? Truly?”
Nasira smiled. “Better throw some fresh logs on the fire.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time Nasira finished her tale, all the extra logs were burnt and the fire dwindled.
She wasn't nearly as naive as Argus had thought.
If anything, Nasira was too ambitious. She told them how she'd obtained the message on the voxtrap—the one that could change the very course of the war.
It had been a gradual but deliberate process. What started as a suspicion she felt while working as a clerk in Shanaz's personal library grew into a religious conviction.
“Shanaz lied and cheated her way to the Cinder Throne,” she told them. “I believed that as strongly as I believed in the eternal flame. So I set out to prove it.”
Nasira studied hard, reading through the books in the first artificer's library while Shanaz herself rarely ever visited. She described countless hours spent alone, absorbing ancient wisdom and conducting her own experiments.
Because Nasira kept the library so meticulously maintained and never lost a book, eventually the first artificer took notice. She gave Nasira more responsibilities. Soon she was procuring rare books and helping design the initiate artificers' curriculum.
As she rose through the ranks from librarian to head librarian, Nasira watched Shanaz and waited. She studied her habits, finding out everything she could about the woman from the cooks and maids and all the less intelligent subjects who served her.
Finally, after four years of effort, Shanaz named Nasira as her chief minister. Nasira received quarters in her palace, along with a comfortable income and servants of her own. But none of those mattered compared to the one benefit she'd been after for years: influence.
Shanaz sought out Nasira almost every day, whether for counsel or to interpret a text or emotional support. It soon became obvious just how little this woman knew about ruling a kingdom. She was charismatic, and put on a pristine image for her legions of doting subjects, but they didn't get to see the flaws like Nasira did.
Their relationship deepened. Over countless late-night visits and bottles of the finest Garvahnish wines, ruler and adviser became friends. They strolled the palace gardens hand in hand. One night, agonizing over a trade agreement with the Kingdom of Tokat, Shanaz confided that she considered Nasira a sister.
“That was the moment I was waiting for,” she said. “All those years of preparation paid off in her confession.” She told them how she'd embraced the woman, expressed her affection, and reassured her that she could share anything in confidence.
Nasira kept the wine flowing the rest of the night. They ate and drank and danced their fill, until all there was left to do was go outside and sit on a terrace overlooking the sea.
There, with a wineglass in one hand and Shanaz's hand in the other, Nasira asked her to tell her what was wrong. She seemed unsettled. A heaviness had weighed her down for quite some time.
That's when Shanaz made her confession.
In a fit of drunken confusion, she squeezed Nasira's hand and told her that she hadn't the slightest idea how to run a kingdom. She said that Nasira was more suited for the job than she was. Then, with the voxtrap wrapped tightly around her thigh under her dress, Nasira leaned in and recorded the admission she'd sought for half a decade.
Shortly after Shanaz left with her guards that evening, Nasira hastily packed some things, told her servants she was off to visit her mother on Char, another island in the Comet Tail chain, and booked passage on a merchant ship straight for Calladon.
“And there you found me,” she said, staring into the ashes where the fire had been. “I was robbed the night we docked in Darlow. Without time to make more dragons, my only choice was to sell powder as I crossed the continent.”
Harun puffed his long, thin pipe and watched purple smoke curl into the air. His eyes were closed. If it wasn't for the way he inhaled his Tokati tobacco and moaned every once in a while, Argus would have thought he was smoking in his sleep.
“Well?” said Nasira, fidgeting under her blanket.
Argus stopped cleaning his boots and asked, “Is she your friend? Truly?”
Nasira's head swiveled in every direction, unwilling to look the bounty hunter in the eye. “It's complicated. Once you pretend to be something for long enough, a part of you becomes it.”
“So why do it?” said Harun. He packed another pinch of tobacco. “You understand what will happen to her. Once the Comet Tailers find out.”
Nasira covered her face. “They'll be furious. Betrayed. But we are Comet Tailers. Logic and reason are our masters, not emotions.”
Argus laughed. “People are people. It doesn't matter which speck of soil they call home. She'll be lucky if she's just strung up. They will probably kill her slowly, though, chop her up into pieces and feed her to the fish.”
“Stop it!”
Then it was Harun's turn to chuckle. “You're paying us to take you safely to Azmar. That doesn't mean we have to like you.”
Nasira hopped up and wandered over so she was within range of his pipe smoke. “I don't understand why you two find this so humorous. Can't you see that the world would be better off without another war?”
Harun puffed his pipe again and smiled. “Because you don't see yourself for who you truly are.”
“Oh yeah? And who might that be?”
“A mercenary,” Argus said, dusting off his boots with a strip of cloth. “Just like Harun and I.”
Reaver's Wail (The Legion of the Wind, Book One) Page 4
