Jolan watched in frozen horror. Cumberland and Oromir were surrounded. About to be cut down like lambs.
Then Iko released a bloodcurdling war howl as she sprinted across the field, moving twice as fast as Willem. Both her daggers were drawn. Five mercenaries broke off to meet her, giving Oromir and Cumberland a fighting chance.
Iko hit the line of soldiers at a full run, ducking and dodging and stabbing. She was wrestled to the ground by two seething men. They became a tangle of limbs and flashing blades and Jolan couldn’t tell who was who, or who was winning.
Willem reached the fray a moment later, throwing one of his war hatchets at a tall mercenary, who blocked it with his shield, then tackled Willem. Pressed him into the mud with his shield, snarling. Willem drew his second hatchet and started hacking at the man’s thigh and ribs.
Jolan turned back to Iko. His heart sank.
It took four men to kill her. Three to pin her down, and one to stab her through the heart with a spear. When it was done, the men who’d held her in place stumbled away and fell to the ground, clutching wounds at their throats, armpits, or groins. They bled out in seconds.
“No!” shouted Willem, who’d finally killed the mercenary and shoved him to the side. He charged the spearman who’d killed Iko. Split his skull apart with a vicious hack and a wild yell.
But it didn’t change anything. She was gone.
Willem charged toward Oromir and Cumberland, who were still fighting the other five mercenaries. He screamed as he joined the vicious fray.
This was Jolan’s fault. If he’d said something different. Something better. Tricked Gyle.
If he hadn’t come up with his stupid plan to begin with.
If. If. If.
“Jolan!” came a hiss from behind him. Garret.
He twisted around. Garret jerked his head farther up the hill, where two massive Lysterians were sneaking out of the forest.
“No,” he whispered. They’d snuck around.
Jolan aimed his crossbow at them.
“There are two of them,” Garret whispered.
“I can count.”
“You have one bolt.”
“I know.”
“Set me free,” Garret said.
Jolan’s mind swarmed with panicked thoughts.
“Set me free, and I will kill them.”
“I don’t…”
The men were fifty strides away now, moving faster now that they’d heard the sounds of fighting.
“Jolan, there’s no time. Do it.”
With a curse, Jolan dropped the crossbow and moved to Garret, fumbling with the key to his chains.
“That a kid?” one of the soldiers muttered in Lysterian. They couldn’t see Garret yet.
“Yup.”
“You!” he called. “Come out where we can see you.”
Jolan fit the key in the lock.
“Come on, now. Won’t hurt you none, boy.”
Turned it.
Garret was up and moving before the chains had fallen to the ground. Walking directly at the men—steady and deliberate. Holding his hands out to his sides.
“Hold up there,” said the closest Lysterian, putting up a hand.
Garret kept moving forward. Didn’t say anything.
“So that’s how you wanna die, asshole? Fine.” The Lysterian bulled forward. Tried to stab Garret through the chest. In one fluid motion, Garret dodged the sword, snatched it from the man’s hand, and cut his head off with it.
The other Lysterian approached with more caution. His face was grim.
“That was my brother,” he growled.
“I don’t care,” said Garret.
The Lysterian attacked, but Garret darted forward—moving far quicker than his opponent—and cut off the man’s sword hand during his backswing. Garret sliced his hamstring open, forcing him to his knees.
Before the Lysterian could so much as scream, Garret cut his head off, too.
Garret marched back to Jolan, yanked the Kor from his satchel, and headed for the undergrowth.
“Wait,” Jolan said. “You can’t just take it.”
“Yes, I can.”
The sounds of fighting were still ringing out behind Jolan. That meant it wasn’t over. Not yet.
Jolan picked up the crossbow, came around in front of Garret, and leveled the weapon.
That stopped Garret, but he didn’t seem scared. “What are you going to do with that?”
“We need the Kor.”
“A lot of people need it, which means it’s worth a lot of money.”
“So, you’re just a common thief now?”
“Move.”
Jolan shook his head. Placed his finger on the metal trigger. “They saved you.”
“No. They wanted to kill me. You saved me. And now I have saved you, which makes us even. Those wardens spoiled my work, which means I’m spoiling theirs and taking the orb.”
Garret stepped forward. Slow and confident.
Jolan tried to fire the crossbow. He really did. But before he could summon the courage—or whatever quality is required to kill a man—Garret put a hand over the mechanism and took the weapon from him, then slammed the butt into Jolan’s mouth. He hit the ground with a grunt. Tasted blood. A moment later he felt the metal irons clamping around his wrist and locking.
“No!” Jolan shouted. “Stop!”
Garret headed toward the trees, but Cumberland came up the path before he disappeared into the jungle.
“I heard screaming,” Cumberland said, seeing the dead bodies. “What happened?”
Jolan pointed at Garret with his bound hands. “He took the Kor.”
Cumberland turned his gaze to Garret.
“Gray eyes,” he called. Garret turned. “Can’t let you take that.”
“Yes you can, old man. It’s not worth dying over.”
In the distance, Jolan could hear steel ringing out. Oromir and Willem were still fighting.
Cumberland moved toward Garrett. Swung his bloodied sword into an attack posture. “Won’t ask again. Drop it.”
“Have it your way. But I warned you.”
Garret slipped the crossbow around from the small of his back and fired it. Cumberland twitched left so the bolt glanced off his breastplate. Garret was on him a moment later, raining down a flurry of blows with his sword. Cumberland parried and dodged, then beat Garret back with a series of his own rapid strikes. Their swords moved so quickly that Jolan couldn’t follow the movements, just hear metallic clangs ringing out faster than his hammering heart.
And then, without warning, it was over.
One moment, they were matching each other blow for blow, the next Garret thumped Cumberland in the mouth with the pommel of his sword, then ran the blade through his heart.
“No!” Jolan shouted, voice cracking in his throat. He yanked on his manacles as hard as he could. Felt the skin break. Didn’t care. He yanked and he screamed and then yanked more. His vision blurred over with tears. But he kept on screaming—a wordless, tortured wail.
“Jolan!” came Oromir’s voice from far down the hill. “We’re coming!”
Garret looked at Jolan. “I told you that it was a mistake to save my life.”
Then he disappeared into the jungle.
Jolan sat there trembling and yanking on the chains until Oromir and Willem came running up the muddy road.
“What happened?” Oromir asked. He hadn’t seen Cumberland yet.
“Let me out,” Jolan cried. “Let me out so I can save him.”
Cumberland was still moving. Trying to reach for his sword with a weak hand. Oromir finally saw him.
“Gods. Fucking gods.” Oromir moved fast, grabbing the keys from the ground and unlocking Jolan. As soon as the irons clicked open, Jolan ran to Cumberland.
Blood was everywhere, pooling in the muddy rut where Cumberland had fallen.
Jolan surveyed the wound as Morgan taught him. Panic rose in this throat. Cumberland had been stabbed just beneath t
he solar plexus. Garret had yanked the blade upward, where it tore into lung and heart. Blood surged from the wound in so many places there was no way to identify the source.
Cumberland’s eyes were wide open. He tried to talk but blood came out instead of words.
“Don’t talk,” Jolan said, tearing open his satchel. Ramming the sealskin gloves on and pulling out his scissors. He cut Cumberland’s breastplate and shirt off. “I can fix this. I can fix it.”
He tried to remember the Guide to Field Surgeries.
Find the source of the bleeding. Stop it. If there are multiple sources, start with the largest and repair them one at a time.
“I can’t see anything,” Jolan said, poised over the wound with his stitches ready.
Clear the field.
Jolan snatched his gauze from the satchel.
“Open your canteen,” he said to Oromir as he packed the gauze into the wound to soak up the worst of the blood. “When I remove this, pour it over the wound.”
“How much?” Oromir’s voice was shaky as he pulled the stopper off his canteen.
“As much as it takes so I can fucking see.” His voice cracked. “I have to see.”
Jolan removed the saturated gauze. Picked up his stitches.
“Now.”
Jolan watched as the water went into the wound. Cumberland jerked in pain. As the liquid splashed into Cumberland’s chest, there was a moment where it washed his organs clean. Jolan could see the top of his stomach, the bottom of his heart, and the edge of his blue lung.
“That’s enough,” Jolan said, eyes focused.
Once Oromir stopped pouring, the wounds started pumping blood again, allowing him to identify the bleeds.
Jolan started stitching.
He moved as fast as he could—closing one wound, then moving to the next. Before long, his arms were covered from fingers to elbows with Cumberland’s blood.
“Jolan…” Cumberland whispered.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “I can fix this. I can fix you. I can…”
“Stop.” Cumberland took Jolan’s hand. His fingers felt like they’d been submerged in an icy lake for hours. “It’s all right.”
Jolan looked up at Cumberland’s face. His skin had gone pale and waxy. Lips blue. Then he looked at his chest again and saw that his heart was barely beating.
“I’m losing him.”
“No,” Oromir said. He turned to Jolan with tears in his eyes. “Fix it!”
“I’m trying,” Jolan hissed, fingers moving as quickly as he could make them.
Oromir squeezed Cumberland’s hand. “You can’t go. You can’t die.”
“You were always gonna outlive me, Oro. That’s the way this shit works.”
“I told you to fix it!” Oromir shouted at Jolan.
Jolan looked at the wounds. Helpless. Willem had come up behind them.
“No,” he muttered, then dropped to his knees.
“Get the Gods Moss!” Jolan barked.
“The what?”
“Move.” Jolan shoved him out of the way and dug into the satchel until he found the metal box filled with the moss he’d scraped from the deepest part of the Dainwood warrens. Pushed all of it into Cumberland’s wound.
“What are you…”
“I’ve seen it work!” he screamed, lips trembling. He was crying so hard he could barely see. “I’ve seen magic before. It will work. It has to.”
Cumberland pulled Oromir close. Struggled to eke out the words. “Don’t … don’t be…”
His mouth hung open, the last word dying on his breath. Jolan’s eyes blurred with tears. Cumberland’s hand went slack in Oromir’s fist.
“No! No, no, no, no.”
Jolan pressed against the moss. Waiting for the miracle at Otter Rock to repeat itself. Frantically searching for a sign of life in Cumberland’s body.
But it never came.
PART IV
42
BERSHAD
Ghost Moth Island, Naga Rock
Plink.
The sound of metal being dropped against metal woke Bershad up.
He was on his belly. Laid up on a rickety cot that smelled of pus and sweat. A man grunted with effort. Bershad felt a sharp pain in his back—as if someone was pinching a massive pustule—and then relief as the pressure was released and something cold was removed from his left shoulder blade.
Plink.
Bershad remembered the rushing river. Mouthfuls of red, putrid water. All those bolts in his chest and back—the last remnants of Gods Moss struggling to heal the wounds as he was carried down the bloody cataracts. Somewhere in that mess, the mushroom had floated down next to him. He’d grabbed it. Clung to the edge as the current took him over a rushing waterfall.
Everything went black when he hit the sea.
Plink.
“How many is that, Cormo?” asked a man who spoke Papyrian with a Ghalamarian accent.
“Twenty-three. Still got a few left that I can’t get out. Bastard’s bones healed over ’em somehow.”
The first man whistled. “How’s he still alive?”
“Fuck if I know, Boris,” said Cormo, grunting as he pulled another bolt from Bershad’s back. “But given all the shit the Flawless Bershad has survived, a bunch o’ bolts wouldn’t logically pose a major hurdle.”
Plink.
“Ain’t nothing logical about any of this,” Boris said. “I don’t like it.”
“Good for you. Come down to do anything besides spread your discontent?”
“Kerrigan wants to know if he’s awake. She wants to do his interview.”
“Let’s find out.”
There was a pause. Cormo dropped whatever rusty metal tool he’d been using into a bucket of water, which smelled like it was half filled with horse piss, and then bent down so his face was a finger’s width from Bershad’s nose. Cormo was in his late forties. Bushy mutton chops covered meaty jowls and about half of his blue bars. His head was shaved and there was a jagged scar running across one side of his skull. Looked like it had been done with a fork.
“You awake yet, lizard killer?” he asked, switching to Almiran and smiling. All of his teeth were black.
“Where am I?” Bershad rasped. His throat felt like a dried bone with the marrow bored out.
“Naga Rock!” he said, clapping Bershad on the shoulder, which caused a shock of pain. “Subterranean home o’ the Naga Killer Corsair Company. You are our prisoner.”
“How long?” Bershad swallowed, trying to get his throat wet. It didn’t really work. “How long have I been here?”
“A decent stretch. I been working on these bolts for, oh, don’t even know how many days. They’re wedged mighty deep, so I took lots of breaks.” He turned to Boris and switched back to Papyrian. “Man’s awake. Appears to have cheated death once again.”
“Is he really … you know?”
“You see any other exiles wandering the halls with an arm like that?”
“Fucking hell. What are the chances of fishing the Flawless Bershad outta the Big Empty?”
“Not high. But let’s have less wondering about long probabilities and more trotting down to Kerrigan and giving the news.” Cormo squinted at Bershad. “I can take him up in a few ticks, I’d say.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m off then.”
Boris left. Cormo pulled his pliers out of the water. “I can take one more run at those stragglers if you want,” he said, switching back to Almiran.
Bershad shook his head. A few bolts in his back didn’t matter, and he remembered what Goll had told him about how Cormo had earned those bars. He figured that if this idiot had sawed off the wrong leg of some general, the less healing he inflicted on Bershad the better.
“Water.”
Cormo sucked on his teeth. “Poor luck there. Drinkable water ain’t exactly a cheap commodity in Naga Rock. Or a priority. But we got enough ale to drown a dragon. Good stuff, too. None of that cheap rice wine piss that Papyrians like so much.”
“Fine.”
Cormo helped Bershad sit up on the cot, which sent a thousand needle shocks of pain through his body. He tried to get his bearings. They were in a cramped room with a low ceiling. Lit by three dirty lanterns and a fire in the corner that was almost down to embers. He smelled seawater and snails. The walls were carved directly from the rock and looked like they’d been dug out by a massive claw.
They were inside a dragon’s lair. Must be a Naga Soul Strider—nothing else was big enough.
Cormo handed Bershad an earthenware jug with the stopper already pulled. The jug was cold and smelled of seawater. The pirate must have been keeping it in a tide pool or something. Bershad took a long, deep drink. Nearly finished off half the jug in one pull.
“It’s Leeroy’s outfit that found you,” Cormo said while Bershad drank. “They were returning from a reaving—already planning which companions they’d go see first—when you plopped into the ocean, falling down the Bloody Sludge waterfall like a piece of flotsam, clinging to one o’ the big mushrooms. The decision as to whether they get the Exile’s Reward for that is still up in the air. Accidentally coming across a lizard killer doesn’t happen often.” Cormo burped. Thumped on his chest a few times. “Leeroy said both your legs were broke when he fished you out o’ the water, but he’s an idiot. They’re just bruised to shit is all.”
Bershad looked down at his legs, both of which were completely black and purple. Fixing those bones and fusing a few bolts to his skeleton must have been the last bit of healing the Gods Moss managed. That meant his current injuries weren’t going away anytime soon unless he could get some more warren moss.
Bershad tried to reach out with his senses and see if he could feel the Nomad. But the limestone walls of the cave were too thick. The world beyond the rock was closed off to him.
“How do I get out of this place?”
Cormo took the jug. “Not so fast. Kerrigan decides the fate of every exile that winds up at Naga Rock. Being the most famous lizard killer in Terra don’t make you exempt.”
Bershad pushed himself up from the cot. “I’m leaving.”
“No. You are not.”
Bershad ignored him. Crossed the room. The rusty tools were a few strides away and would make decent weapons.
But he only made it halfway to the tools—stumbling from the pain that shot up both legs with each step—before Cormo’s meaty hand clamped around his shoulder and shoved him back onto the cot. Bershad was weaker than he’d realized, and the pirate overpowered him as easily as a jaguar ambushing a baby goat.
Sorcery of a Queen Page 38