Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “How far to the east?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen leagues.”

  “C’mon, boss! Why didn’t you tell us sooner? I haven’t been laid in weeks. A man starts building plans up for himself on a certain timeline. Now I have to readjust.”

  “That grieves me.”

  Willem sighed. “Collecting more Papyrian pigeons, is it?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t get it,” Willem complained. “Why’s some island empress half a world away helping us fight Linkon Pommol’s men?”

  “Dunno,” Cumberland said. “But the only reason we got the drop on that last group of turtles is ’cause a Papyrian bird told us where they’d be. The paper lashed to those pigeon legs is keeping us in this war, and Carlyle said that mill’s got the next message.”

  “We ain’t seen Carlyle in weeks. How’d he know where the next bird’ll show up?”

  “Don’t know that either.” Cumberland sucked some meat out of his teeth, then tossed a chicken bone over his shoulder.

  “They’re using homing pigeons,” Jolan said. “But they’re only trained to go to specific places. So when the empress of Papyria sends one letter, she probably also says where the next one’s going to show up.”

  “Huh. Why don’t they just train the birds to fly back and forth between two places?” Willem asked.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible,” Jolan said.

  “Yeah, but if you really tried to, I bet—”

  “I’m not gonna sit here all morning while you scholars argue about pigeons,” Cumberland interrupted. “We have walking to do.”

  Everyone started preparing their weapons and gear. Jolan took one last look at his remaining portion of chicken, but decided the effort to chew it wasn’t worth the reward and threw it into a blueberry bush.

  Tomorrow, he would volunteer to do the cooking.

  * * *

  There were seven wardens in turtle masks outside the mill. Five were crowded around the door and two were running a loose patrol around the mill itself—keeping an eye on the different points of approach. Most of their attention was focused on a stone bridge set over the river that powered the mill.

  “Seven demons in a fucking tree,” Sten muttered, looking down on the mill from the ridge. Jolan and the wardens were all on their bellies, hidden from view by the thick ferns that carpeted the forest. “What’re Pommol’s men doing here?”

  “Unknown,” Cumberland said. “But they are in our way.”

  Cumberland shifted, wincing a little and touching his rib. Jolan was a good healer, but he couldn’t make an arrow wound disappear after just a few days. Not yet.

  “Is seven a lot for you to fight?” Jolan whispered to Oromir, who’d slid up so close to Jolan that their shoulders were touching. Jolan knew ratios of tonics and properties of herbs, but he had no idea if four against seven was decent odds for a fight, or suicide.

  “More than manageable if we get the drop on them,” Oromir whispered back.

  “Why didn’t they bring more men?” Jolan asked.

  “We’ve been bleeding any large groups that stumbled into the Dainwood for months. Took them a while, but they finally learned to travel small and inconspicuous. Same as we do. The northerners are thick-skulled, and they lack creativity when it comes to warfare, but they do eventually learn.”

  “What’s the plan, then?” Willem asked Cumberland, voice impatient.

  “Wait a spell. See what they do.”

  “So, nothing?” Willem said.

  “For a spell.” Cumberland settled into the ferns and focused on the mill.

  Three of the wardens went inside the main building. Two stayed outside to guard the door, and another two started making lazy laps around the perimeter. Willem looked at Cumberland expectantly, but the older warden ignored him.

  Sten started pinching together another mud totem. Once he’d formed the figure, he pressed a few rusted chinks of mail into the body, then added black river stones for the eyes.

  Ten minutes later, a warden burst out of the mill’s door. He lifted his mask to spit, then cinched it back into place.

  “Give me good news,” said one of the men by the door.

  “There’s a nest and shit up top, but we didn’t find no bird or paper.”

  “What’s the miller got to say?”

  The warden motioned to his knuckles, which were split in several places. “He’s kinda stubborn.”

  “Well, stop punching him and start taking away things he’ll miss. Everyone squeals eventually. Orders were to kill all the pigeons, and come back with all the paper.”

  The warden with the cut knuckles hesitated.

  “Gods, but you’re a thin-blooded bastard.” The other warden drew a knife from his belt. “I’ll show you how. Key is to start by taking an eye before you even ask a question…”

  They both went back inside, leaving one man at the door and the other two running a patrol.

  “Time to move,” Cumberland said, hauling the two-handed greatsword off his back. Oromir and Sten drew their swords. Jolan shivered at the whisper the steel made leaving its scabbard. Drawn weapons reminded him of Garret.

  “Oh, now it’s time to hurry up and get to work, is it?” Willem said. “Maybe if we hadn’t wasted so much time ogling the whole fucking—”

  “Close your mouth,” Cumberland said flatly. “And crank that crossbow.”

  Willem stared at him for a moment, then loaded a bolt into his weapon and tightened the mechanism with a few quick pulls on the machinery.

  “Me and Sten’ll take the door. Willem and Oromir deal with the two wanderers soon as we get started.”

  They all gave short nods of understanding, then slipped their masks over their faces.

  “What about me?” Jolan asked.

  Cumberland looked down at him. “You do not move from your present spot until I come back for you.” He grabbed Jolan’s shoulder and squeezed it so hard Jolan almost yelped. “And be warned, boy, I can follow your footprints from here to the jungle nations. If you force me to chase you down, I will be a lot less polite about things moving forward.”

  Jolan swallowed. “Got it.”

  “Good. I’ll call for you when we’re done.”

  Cumberland and his men moved with the predatory confidence of wolves surrounding an elk. Willem and Oromir strafed to the right and ducked beneath the bridge, then waded across the water under the bridge’s shadow. Cumberland and Sten went left and took cover at the edge of the field. Once the patrolling men passed them, they bolted across the open field with their bodies hunched low until they reached the unguarded wall of the mill. Cumberland snuck along the wall and stopped just short of the southern corner. Crouched low. The man guarding the door was only a few paces away, but couldn’t see him. Sten moved to the far side of the same wall and peered around the opposite corner, eyeing the patrol. He put one arm up. Cumberland watched him.

  They stayed like that while the two patrolling men wended their way around the bridge. Screams started from inside the mill. But the jaguar wardens remained still as statues.

  When the two patrolling men were three strides past the bridge, Sten dropped his hand.

  Cumberland darted around the corner and decapitated the man guarding the door with a brutal hack.

  Before his head hit the ground, Oromir and Willem were out from behind the bridge.

  Oromir rushed the two men at a sprint while Willem raised his crossbow and took careful aim. He fired a bolt into the left side of one turtle’s back—straight through his heart. The warden fell face-first into the mud.

  The other one turned around and raised his sword into a guard, but Oromir was on him. They exchanged a flurry of strikes and parries. Oromir steadily beat the man backward, blade moving so fast Jolan could barely keep track of it. Jolan blinked, and suddenly Oromir’s sword was jammed through the man’s heart. His arms and head went slack. Oromir removed his blade and the man crumpled to the ground.

 
Without missing a step, Oromir rushed toward the mill. Willem shouldered his crossbow, drew the war hatchets from his belt, and followed. Cumberland was already coiling his body and getting ready to break down the door. One hard pound from his boot was all it took to blast the wood off its hinges.

  All four jaguars rushed into the mill. Jolan heard steel beating against steel. Shouting. Cursing. Then screaming. He kept his eyes fixed on the door—mouth dry, heart racing. In the back of his head, Jolan told himself he should run. There were a dozen ways to lose a man in the Dainwood. But he was so scared he couldn’t even stand up.

  A minute later, Cumberland appeared in the doorway. There was blood all over his mask.

  “Jolan! We need you.”

  For some reason, Cumberland’s shout broke Jolan’s trance. Maybe because his bark had the same urgent bite as Master Morgan’s voice. Jolan stood, grabbed his pack, and ran to the mill.

  The broken door led to an open living area. There was a kitchen, a cast-iron stove, and a large straw mattress in the corner. The turtle wardens were spread around the room, all of them killed in various ways. One had his entrails spread across the kitchen counter. Another had a massive vertical gash from collarbone to stomach and was bleeding all over the bed.

  The miller was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His face swollen and battered. One of his eyes was missing. He was pulling ragged breaths.

  “Fix him,” Cumberland said, in a tone that made it sound simple for a half-trained alchemist runaway to brew a tonic that would regrow the lost eye.

  Jolan nodded and came over to the man. Examined the wounds. His nose was broken. Someone had jammed a thumb into his eye and pressed it against the socket, turning it to mush. Jolan would need to remove the ruined remains along with any errant nerves that would cause him pain, clean the area, and make him a patch.

  “Get me some fresh water from the creek,” Jolan said, already opening his pack to get the ingredients he’d need. “Boil it, let it cool, then I’ll tell you what to do next.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Jolan had removed the ruined eye, flushed the wound with a disinfectant solution, and covered it with a healing poultice. He fitted the miller for an eyepatch made from deerskin leather and gave him a week’s worth of tonic that would dull the pain and reduce inflammation. Cumberland was the only one who’d stayed for the entire thing—the others had opted to wait outside.

  “Drink one of these vials in the morning, and another right after your dinner. It will help ease the pain.”

  “I’m grateful,” the miller said. He’d withstood the painful surgery with very little fanfare—gripping the arm of the chair was the only indication of discomfort. Jolan noticed he had plenty of scars on his hands and forearms. He did not think this man had always been a miller.

  “I wish I could have done more,” Jolan said.

  He’d added a small pinch of Gods Moss to his standard herb poultice. The same thing he’d done to Bershad’s leg back at Otter Rock. Then he added two mudfish scales, which were used to intensify the reaction of several different chemical processes. He was half hoping the eye really would grow back, but nothing extraordinary happened. Just a cleansed wound that wouldn’t get infected, even if the miller rubbed dung in it.

  One experiment done. A few thousand more to go.

  Cumberland came over and squeezed the man’s shoulder as Jolan was packing up.

  “Godrick,” he said. “I hate to ask, but…”

  “The bird is safe. And the message. One moment.”

  Godrick stood with a grunt, then moved to his stove and bent over behind it. He pried a brick out of the wall with a fire poker, dug around in the little hollow behind it, and came out cradling a dark blue pigeon. The bird’s head bobbed as it scanned the room.

  Cumberland gave a sigh of relief. “Good. Good.”

  Jolan studied the bird. It looked like an ordinary carrier pigeon. “What’s so special about her?” he asked.

  “She’s one of the last of Ashlyn Malgrave’s birds that can reach Papyria,” Cumberland said, taking the bird in his massive hands. “My orders are to bring this pigeon and her message to Umbrik’s Glade. Carlyle says there’ll be a widow waiting for it.”

  “It true they wear sharkskin armor?” Godrick asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a storm rolling in from the south,” Godrick said. “You and your men are welcome to the barn.”

  Cumberland nodded. “Appreciated, old friend.”

  “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.” Godrick went over to the kitchen and produced a jug of liquor from a cabinet. “Seeing as I’m injured and we’re old friends, best get drunk and tell some lies to each other. You can blow smoke up my ass about how heroic I was in the old days. How I taught you everything you know.”

  Cumberland bowed his head. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Willem, Sten, and Oromir had monopolized half the barn with their weapons and armor. They were sharpening and oiling their blades. Replacing chain-mail links in their armor. Willem had disassembled his crossbow into five pieces and was cleaning the recurved limbs with a rag. They muttered little jokes and jabs at each other while they worked.

  Jolan dropped his pack on the far side of the barn, lit a candle, and started unpacking his supplies and organizing his thoughts for the next experiment.

  There was already a known list of Gods Moss concoctions—all of them extremely valuable. And because of that, nobody in the Alchemist Order had looked for new ones for hundreds of years. But Jolan believed there was more. Some mixture that Master Morgan had discovered, but not revealed—Morgan had been an extremely secretive person, always sending and receiving mysterious note from Pargos. Jolan was determined to re-create the recipe.

  The first step was to start ruling things out. He decided to begin with Canallum roots.

  They were a rare warren root, and were often used as an acceleration agent in blood thinners. Maybe they could have other, undiscovered properties. Jolan spent ten minutes purifying a flask and preparing the two ingredients. He sliced the roots, measured his moss, and then used a steel rod to flatten the mixture against the bottom of the flask.

  The early-autumn storm howled at the walls of the barn—rattling the wood slats and making his candle shudder. This was a far cry from the quiet, perfectly insulated apothecary where he used to conduct experiments, but it was all he had.

  Jolan filled the flask with a warm brine made from spring water and Atlas Coast salt. Sealed the top—careful to prevent contamination—and set it aside. It would settle overnight, and ferment over the course of several weeks. Jolan watched the cloudy mixture swirl. Started thinking of other combinations he could try.

  “Where did you learn all of that?”

  Jolan twitched, surprised. Oromir had come over while he was conjuring imaginary healing tonics in his head.

  “I used to be apprenticed to an alchemist.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. I became Master Morgan’s apprentice when I was ten years old. I lived with him at the apothecary after that—gathering and measuring ingredients for hours each day. Setting up the antivenom experiments for the red-shelled snail pestilence that plagued the area. And I assisted with all the field surgeries.”

  “Field surgeries? How many could there have been in Otter Rock?”

  “Needle-Throated Verduns like those foothills. There were a lot of attacks over the years. Even a few dragonslayings.”

  “Ah. I see. I guess dragonslayers make for good practice. No harm screwing up the stitches on a dead man.”

  “No,” Jolan said softly.

  “But you’re not an alchemist anymore?”

  He shook his head. “I’m working on this for myself.”

  “What’s it going to do?”

  Jolan shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, actually. I’m trying to find something new. It’s hard to explain.”

  Oromir picked up on Jolan’s apprehension
. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  The young warden turned back toward his side of the barn.

  “Where did you learn to fight so well?” Jolan asked, stopping his departure. His experiments could wait, and after two moons alone in the jungle, he craved conversation.

  Oromir gave him a look, then a devious smile. His tone changed. “What makes you say I fight well?”

  “I saw the way you moved by the bridge. You’re faster than all the others.”

  “Twice as quick, half as strong!” Sten shouted from his spot.

  Jolan looked down at his feet, suddenly feeling foolish. “Well, I was impressed by the way you moved. You were very graceful.”

  Oromir’s face softened. “Sword work is like any trade, you practice it every day—and practice hard—you get good at it. Same as a seamstress or a cook. Or a healer.” He stared at Jolan with his bright green eyes for a moment, then pulled a flask from an inner pocket of his jacket. Took a sip.

  “Brandy?” he said, offering the flask to Jolan. “It’s from Deepdale, cost two silvers.”

  Jolan remembered the pleasant buzz he’d gotten from rain ale when he’d visited Deepdale with Garret. After the things he’d seen and done that day, he could use something to help him relax.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Oromir gave Jolan the flask, then sat down next to him. Once again, he was so close their shoulders were touching. Jolan took a sip and did his best to pretend it didn’t burn the back of his throat and make his eyes water. He’d have preferred rain ale.

  “It’s good.”

  “Only the best for you, Jolan.”

  “And Oromir makes his move,” Willem muttered from across the barn.

  “Just keep it down this time, will you?” Sten added. “The storm ain’t loud enough to drown you out.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Jolan asked.

  “Ignore those two. They’re just bitter they have to wait for a woman to get a little intimacy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Oromir smiled again. Took the brandy from Jolan. “He thinks we’re gonna screw.”