Most parts of a dragon’s carcass—teeth, hide, organs, and bones—were notoriously difficult to use. For some reason, they almost always turned to rot within a few days. Sometimes hours. That was why Bershad’s dragontooth dagger was so rare—most attempts at such a weapon ended with a soft, fungus-covered rod. But any fool could remove the lump of dragon fat at the root of each scale and boil it down to an oil that lasted ten times longer than any other animal fat.
In Almira, the local lord had claim to three-quarters of any dragon carcass. The rest went to whoever was brave enough to be there with a knife. Jolan noticed that the villagers were carefully setting Lord Nimbu’s share aside. He’d recently built a new manor that was a ten-days’ ride downstream from Otter Rock, but he would most certainly send riders to claim his dragon fat. Given the size of the Needle-Throated Verdun, Nimbu’s take would be worth two or even three years of taxes from Otter Rock.
Jolan left them to fight over the carcass. He didn’t understand how Morgan’s head could have gotten lost. But after twenty minutes of searching—which was the time it took Rowan to make a stretcher for Bershad from saplings and strips of leather and cloth—Jolan still hadn’t found it. If he couldn’t find Morgan’s head, Jolan couldn’t put a seashell in his mouth. Without a shell, his spirit would be forced to wander the countryside, looking for the Soul Sea. They were a long way from the coast, though. It would be easy for Morgan to get lost.
“Best leave it, boy,” Rowan said after he’d gotten Bershad onto the stretcher and tied it to the donkey’s harness.
“Might be he can find the sea on his own,” Rowan added when Jolan didn’t stop looking.
“And if he can’t?” Jolan asked, voice trembling. Vision blurred by tears.
Rowan blinked, then put a hand on Jolan’s shoulder. “Life’s full of burdens, boy. Picking up a heavy one like this so early on isn’t a good idea. You’ve got to pace yourself.”
Rowan pulled gently on the donkey’s lead, and they started back to town.
* * *
Jolan mulled over his situation while trudging back to Otter Rock behind Rowan, the donkey, his master’s corpse, and the unconscious Bershad. The last piece in a dismal train.
In another few months, Morgan would have made Jolan a journeyman alchemist, which would have allowed him to take over the contract from Lord Nimbu. But as an apprentice, Jolan had the same rights as the knives he carried in his pack and the bottles of medicine on the apothecary shelves.
None.
The Guild of Alchemists would send a replacement for Morgan if Lord Nimbu paid them, but that wasn’t likely. Morgan had made little progress with the red-shelled snails in five years of work, and Lord Nimbu had always been suspicious of his presence. He trusted mud totems more than glass vials of strange ingredients. Morgan had often wondered why the small lord had hired him at all.
No, Lord Nimbu would probably void his contract with the alchemists, sell the contents of the apothecary for a hefty profit, then throw Jolan off the land. And there was nothing Jolan could do to stop it.
Despite his knowledge, training, and years of experience, Jolan was completely helpless. To make matters worse, he’d lost track of the Gods Moss vial when the dragon woke up.
A rider blocking the path ahead interrupted Jolan’s thoughts. The man had a dark beard, sat atop a courser, and wore the purple cloak and light silver armor of an Almiran sentinel. The sentinels were brave men—part of the Malgrave army but not under the command of a specific high-warden. They could be used as scouts, messengers, and mounted archers, but they were mostly responsible for hunting down dragonslayers that had strayed from their duty in Almira. Sentinels were famous for their ruthlessness in bringing truant exiles to justice.
“Is that the Flawless Bershad?” the sentinel asked.
“Dunno,” Rowan said. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Zim,” the sentinel said, as if that was enough. He let his sword arm hang low and relaxed by his side. “Answer my question.”
“It’s Bershad,” Rowan said, letting go of the donkey’s lead and taking a step forward.
“Is he dead?”
“Napping. Tough work, killing dragons,” Rowan said, with no friendliness in his voice.
Zim squinted down at Bershad. “He doesn’t seem to be living up to his immaculate reputation.”
“What would you know about it?” Rowan spat, and stared the sentinel down. Jolan noticed Rowan’s hand had drifted over the hilt of his sword, too. It was an old, beaten thing with a jaguar on the pommel and a leather grip worn down with dirt and sweat. Zim eyed Rowan, then seemed to change his mind about something and relaxed.
“I’ve been looking for that asshole for a fucking fortnight.” Zim produced a small roll of paper and tossed it to the ground at Rowan’s feet. “When the Flawless Bershad wakes up, there’s a message for him.”
“What’s it say?” Rowan asked, frowning.
“I am the messenger. Not the mouth.”
“You are a pimple on my donkey’s ass.”
“Watch your tongue, trash, or you will find it removed from your mouth. Along with the rest of your head.”
“Idle talk,” Rowan said. “Get gone back down the bloody road. If we meet in the wilds, we’ll pick up from here.”
Zim hissed, spurred his horse, turned, and galloped down the road. Jolan watched until he disappeared. When he turned back, Rowan was reading the message.
“What’s it say?” Jolan asked.
“See for yourself. Not every day you read a letter written by a king.”
Jolan took the paper.
Exile,
There is need of you in the capital. Whatever shithole barn you are sleeping in, wake up. Whatever lizard you are hunting, let it escape. Your banishment is lifted. Temporarily. Return to Floodhaven.
Hertzog Malgrave I, King of Almira
The king’s royal mark was pressed below the signature—an eagle perched atop a great pine with his wings outstretched.
“What do you think the king wants?” Jolan asked.
“Whatever it is, can’t be worse than this,” Rowan said, picking up the stretcher again and heading into town.
2
GARRET
Almira, North of Swordfish Point
Garret leapt overboard from the whaler a league off the Almiran coast, under cover of mist and night. He swam with the tide, swirling toward land. It was almost dawn when he washed ashore, filled his wet fists with the sand of Almira, and walked off the beach. The taste of salt pervaded his mouth.
His equipment was wrapped in a waterproofed satchel made from a goat’s bladder that he had tied to his hip. Inside: a plain but well-made hunting knife, one set of good boots, a compass, a leather traveler’s cloak, six yards of hemp rope, a tobacco pipe, an empty canteen, putty and glue to disguise his face, and two pieces of flint. Garret unpacked everything amidst the short seaside grass that sprouted a hundred strides back from the surf, making sure nothing had been lost or damaged during his arrival.
In the distance, Garret could see the vague silhouette of a village—one or two watchtowers for seafaring dragons and a crude wall of driftwood. Had to be Swordfish Point, which meant he was exactly where he wanted to be, and right on schedule. For now, anyway. Garret’s business was unpredictable. Always, there were complications.
The sky was pale gray, signaling the approach of dawn. Garret decided to enjoy a small moment of stillness before his long journey and watch the sunrise from the beach. He’d never been to this part of Almira—just the capital, Floodhaven—but he’d studied dozens of maps to prepare for his mission. He was currently in the northeast corner of the Atlas Coast, which was mostly farmland and rolling hills. People lived in small villages, worshipped spurious packs of nameless gods, and feared the movement of demons in the night. Floodhaven was due south along the coast, located where Almira’s two great rivers—the Atlas and Gorgon—emptied into the Soul Sea to create the largest port in the country. South of F
loodhaven was the Dainwood rain forest—a wild jungle teeming with dragons and jaguars. The only major city in the rain forest, Deepdale, had been ruled by the Bershad lords for generations until their house was set to ruin by the Almiran king. Now a high lord named Grealor ruled there.
For his part, Garret was heading west across the Atlas Coast until he crossed the Atlas River and entered the Gorgon Valley. He took one last look at the sea, then tucked his supplies into his goatskin and strode off with his back to the rising sun.
* * *
Two days later, Garret reached the bridge over the Atlas. The river was narrow—no more than a hundred strides across at her widest—but fording her was only possible in a handful of places because what the Atlas lacked in width she made up for in current and depth. Her waters blasted down from the mountains in a fury that did not abate until they reached the sea. Even wading ankle-deep into the current could take a man off his feet and drown him. A team of oxen could be swept away in seconds.
The river’s violent and continuous current turned any bridge across the Atlas into a crowded funnel for merchant caravans and traders. That was good for Garret. Nobody would remember one man amongst the hundreds of people who would cross that day. He blended into a group of fur trappers who were crossing the bridge at the same time. As they walked, they compared prices and asked about road conditions to different trapping grounds.
“Got a silver a head for beaver at Cold Falls,” one trapper said, grinning and waiting on the others to be impressed.
“Cold Falls folk always overpay, you’d think beaver hats were crowns the way they go after them,” said another man, who was clearly drunk and swaying on the mule he rode.
“How was the road?”
“Not bad on the way up, but the bitch was totally washed out on the return. Going around took forever.”
Almiran roads were notoriously rough and inconsistent. Garret had built delays into his timeline specifically for that reason.
He followed the rise and fall of their voices, memorizing the taste and shape of their accents. It had been five years since he’d impersonated an Almiran. He needed the practice.
A trading outpost began as soon as the bridge ended. Supply stores lined the main, muddy road and men poured out of them with sacks of salted meat and vegetables. Garret walked into the first cheap tavern he found. There were only two other customers. One was passed out in his chair, the other was molding a mud figurine directly onto the bar—sticking his tongue out as he carefully placed a crown of pine needles into its head.
Behind their horrific roads, Almirans’ compulsive need to make decorative mud statues to their innumerable gods was the most well-known thing about them.
Garret sat down and motioned to the barkeep.
“What’ll it be?” the barkeep said when he came over. The man’s thick, country accent made him sound like he had a mouthful of mud that he was forced to talk around.
“Mead. Sweet as you got,” Garret said in Almiran. His accent wasn’t a perfect match of the trappers, but it was good enough to fool a distracted barkeep.
The barkeep filled a dirty mug with golden mead and passed it to Garret. There were a few shreds of blueberry skins and a piece of honeycomb the size of an acorn floating in the top of the drink. Garret took a sip. It was certainly sweet, but he wouldn’t have called it good. He preferred the bitter ales of Balaria, but nodded approval all the same. Almirans liked mead.
“I been out east for a month,” Garret said. “Thinkin’ ’bout heading for Mudwall. How do things stand there?”
“Been trapping, eh?”
Garret nodded. “Beavers at Cold Falls. You’d think they were made o’ gold, the prices I got. Was thinking I’d resupply and then head farther west.”
“Mudwall’s in bad shape.” The bartender leaned in over the counter. “Tybolt still rules the city, but he’s holding on by his ass hairs. Some small lord named Hrilian made a pass at him.”
“That right?” Garret asked.
The Almiran lords all swore allegiance to the Malgrave king, but there was near-constant infighting amongst them for control of different cities and lands. From what Garret could tell, the king encouraged these miniature rebellions in an attempt to prevent a larger one aimed at his throne.
“I heard Hrilian even brought a catapult,” the barkeep continued. “Fuck knows where a small lord got one, but it’s caused a real ruckus. Tybby managed to fend him off, but had to call all his wardens to the city to break the little siege. The fighting’s still going on in the woods, and Tybby’s host is still camped outside Mudwall. They got the whole city locked up pretty tight. You might wanna resupply somewhere else.”
Garret drained the rest of his mead. “Is the road to Mudwall clear?” he asked.
The barkeep frowned at the blatant disregard of his advice. Drummed a thick finger on the bar, then shrugged.
“Main highway’s waterlogged to shit from the last storm. You wanna reach Mudwall before midsummer, you need to take the long way ’round. Head southwest along the Demon Hump Hills for a week, till you hit Carthorn pass. You’ll know it by a stream where the north bank is covered with yellow wildflowers. Pray that path’s clear, then follow it north all the way to Mudwall.”
Garret slid two copper coins across the table and left. Now he was behind schedule.
3
BERSHAD
Almira, Floodhaven
It was an hour after dawn and the road to Floodhaven was already clogged for a league with farmers and peasants making their way to market. Everyone was trying to get a prime spot to sell their wares. Animals squawked and brayed while their owners cursed at their animals and at each other. Rowan surveyed the situation from the ridge where they’d made camp. Bershad stood up from his bedroll with a small groan.
“How’s the leg?” Rowan asked.
“Almost there,” Bershad said. The two-week walk along the Atlas River into the capital had slowed the recovery of his leg, but it hadn’t undone the apprentice’s work.
“Healed fast this time, even for you,” Rowan said, dusting a few bits of sleep from his left eye. “Wish I knew what that kid put in your leg.”
By the time Bershad had woken up and told Rowan what the apprentice had done, they were a day’s ride from Otter Rock. Too late to turn around. Bershad had described the moss to Rowan when he woke up—deep green, like wet seaweed, and speckled with blue flowers—but neither of them had ever seen it before.
“Yeah,” Bershad said, pushing a finger against his leg and feeling the dull pain.
“That second spear throw was a bit unusual as well, I’d say.”
“Unusual is one word for it,” Bershad said.
Whatever type of moss the kid put in Bershad’s leg, it had given him a surge of strength he’d never felt before. His heavy spear had felt as light as a river stone in his hand.
“Well, for once the stories they tell about you will line up pretty close with what actually happened.”
“Only if the kid talks. Everyone else was hiding in the woods, as I recall.”
“What do you think it means?”
Bershad scanned the road. “No way to know. And if none of the two dozen alchemists I’ve asked have an answer, I’m not sure there is one.”
“That crazy shaman out in the western hinterlands had a theory. Remember him? With all the bird shit in his hair? Horax or Horlin or something.”
“That nut said I was the god of demons hiding beneath a man’s skin. Bunch of crap.”
“Yeah,” Rowan agreed. “Demons don’t have a god. That’s nonsense.”
Bershad grunted. He didn’t believe in gods or demons any more than he believed in talking swords or honest kings, but something was happening to him. There was a heat inside of his bones that felt foreign and wrong, like a molten splinter running through his marrow. It scared him.
“Whatever it is, doesn’t change the fact we need to get through there today,” Bershad said, motioning to the crowd in front o
f the main gate.
“We’ll cause a scene if you go down there,” Rowan said.
“Walking around to one of the postern gates will take half the day,” Bershad said. “Plus, I’d rather cause a scene than get stopped alone by an ambitious warden who’d rather cut off my head than read a letter. They’ll be less inclined to fight if there’s a crowd prone to rioting.”
“Fair enough. You nervous?” Rowan asked. “About seeing King Hertzog and all?”
“Nervous isn’t the word I’d use.”
Angry. Violent. Those were closer.
Rowan gave him a concerned look.
“You’re not planning on doing something stupid, are you, Silas?”
“Course not,” Bershad said. “I generally like doing stupid things spur of the moment.”
They broke camp and made their way down a narrow goat path until it intersected with the main road, which sloped gently uphill on its way to the city walls. Floodhaven had gotten its name because despite being situated between two powerful rivers, the stretch of land had enough elevation that it never flooded during the spring rains or the autumn storms. It was a rare advantage—most Almiran cities were plagued by deluges.
The first few farmers in the market line grumbled but moved aside as Rowan led their donkey into the crowd. Bershad followed behind, a full head taller than almost everyone he passed. They made it several hundred yards down the road before a peasant girl took the time to notice the man pushing past her.
She began to quiver when she saw the heavy blue strip of tattoo on either side of Bershad’s face. The girl tugged at her father’s sleeve and whispered, “Dragonslayer.”
When her father didn’t do anything, she screamed it.
Some people panicked, but most of them just backed up and eyed the doomed pair of men from a safe distance. There hadn’t been an exile’s head on the walls of Floodhaven for many years, not since Gralor the Stone Ear fell asleep on a river ferry and woke up at the docks to a headsman sharpening his scythe.
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