Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

  “Of course you do,” said Shrike, leaning against the side of the wagon. “As big as you are you’d make an excellent meat shield.”

  Pendragon looked up at Shrike as he shoved his feet into plate boots. “You know something?” he asked the dwarf. “I feel bad for them if they do kill me.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Shrike, twirling a strand of hair at the end of his mohawk.

  “Because if I’m dead they inherit you and all your patronizing and bitching.”

  “Inherit? Clark, you make my company sound like a burden.”

  “And what would you call it, Shrike?”

  “I’m offended you have to ask. I’m a gift, of course, sent here by Cambrian himself to pester you until the day you die. Whenever that may be. Probably soon. Maybe later tonight?”

  “That’s enough Shrike for now,” said Pendragon, picking up a crate lid with both hands. “Begone with you!” said Pendragon as he threw the lid at the dwarf, who ducked and bounced away happily.

  Outside, Evrill was sorting through what remained of their food. “We have one day’s rations of mushrooms, bread, and water,” said Evrill. “We’re going to have to make Capricorn by nightfall.”

  “A long journey,” Shrike piped in. “The Queen bitch sent expeditions into the Nixus fields annually. Two years ago they stopped coming back.”

  Basilisks, rippers, and howlers are all immune to Nixus, thought Calcifer. Then again, there’s always the remnants of the wild fae. The north is a scary place. “Probably the Wild Hunt’s work,” Calcifer said aloud. Queensguard would be prepared to deal with monsters.

  Pendragon shook the cart as he lifted his weight from it. Fully armored, his dragon-headed helmet made him look truly monstrous. Underneath the beast’s metal face the old man’s beard was obscured by a gas mask. “My contact is meeting us inside the city,” said Pendragon, striding towards them. “Her presence should secure us a safe passage.”

  “You seem to have a lot of faith in this contact of yours, old man,” said Shrike skeptically. “Do you really think that one woman is going to calm the Wild Hunt?”

  If Pendragon’s face had been visible, he might have been smiling. “You’ll see when you meet her.”

  “I trust Clark,” said Evrill, hawk-eying the dwarf. “If he says his contact is trustworthy, she is.”

  Shrike laughed. “Yeah, well, you were dumb enough to trust me once. Forgive me if I can’t place great faith in your judgment.”

  Evrill was angry. Calcifer inspected her face, which twitched as she struggled to contain herself. It’s as if she’s never been angry before and doesn’t know how to express it. “We had better get moving,” said Calcifer, breaking the tension. “We have to make Capricorn by sunset. There are monsters that lurk in Nixus at night.”

  They walked amongst the copses of trees, their gas masks giving the party a haunted look. Oaks, maples, willows, and pines—all were little more than warped and blackened shadows of their former selves. They lined the path like tombstones, ominously looming over the party as they traveled. Nixus curled thick at the base of their trunks. The sun’s rays clashed with the green fog and turned the sky a hazy and unpleasant yellow.

  Calcifer hated walking through Nixus. Although he was immune to the toxin, it still made his eyes water and his mouth dry. “I hear Nixus’s effects fade over time,” said the elf. “Do you think one day it will be safe to recolonize the north?”

  Evrill shook her head. “I don’t know. Ten years have weakened its effects, but it still kills—just slower.”

  “After Norfield I ran into the Nixus fields. I was there for hours and I was fine,” said Pendragon.

  Evrill smiled. “Yes, but a bit longer and your nervous system would have shut down.”

  “His what?” asked Calcifer.

  “Oh,” said Evrill, remembering her company. “The nervous system is like your body’s communication network. Nixus is inhaled and travels directly to the brain. Once there it immediately destroys the nerves. That’s how it acts so quickly.”

  “Typical,” said the dwarf quietly, his voice muffled through the gas mask.

  “What was that?” snapped Evrill. “Is there something you want to say?”

  “By the gods, woman,” Shrike responded. “No wonder your house’s emblem is the harpy. Typical, I said typical.”

  “What’s typical?”

  “You sit there bragging about the killing tool you invented, and yet the whole thing is my fault,” said Shrike, glaring from behind the glass windows of his gas mask.

  “Bragging? I wasn’t bragging, I was explaining. I take no pride in what I’ve helped do.”

  “Of course you don’t! Why would you take pride in shaping the modern world? You and Sir Sorrow over there should get married.”

  “Me?” asked Calcifer.

  “No, not you,” said Shrike. “You have every reason to be broody, but I think it’s temporary with you.” Shrike pointed at Evrill and Pendragon. “With these two it’s practically a medical condition. Get over yourselves.”

  “No,” said Evrill. “You and I had an agreement, Shrike. You agreed not to deploy the Nixus until I gave the order. Instead you took it to the dukes.”

  “You’ve got secrets upon secrets, don’t you, Shrike?” asked Calcifer.

  “That’s my trade,” said the dwarf with a wink.

  “You are a vile, ruthless, cruel, manipulative little man, and there isn’t a line you won’t cross if it gets you what you want,” snapped Evrill.

  Shrike shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But despite whatever I am, or whatever I might be, you’re going to need me.”

  Capricorn jutted from the fog, the once proud city dilapidated from neglect and soggy with decay. Legends said that the elves had built their capital atop a ruins older than time. Proud white spires towered over the travelers as they approached. Paint peeled from domed rooftops which somehow still stood despite the chunks of marble missing from their columned bases. Things made of stone had held up substantially better than anything made of wood, which rotted and sagged. Lake Crescent wrapped around the city’s north, east, and west sides, with the west side of the lake emptying into the Massapon River. The southern bridge proved the only possible entrance.

  It’s been a long time, thought Calcifer as he gazed up at the pair of stone sea goats that lined the white bridge. It was eerily quiet as they crossed, and the sunset reflected off the still lake’s waters in an orange haze. Once they entered the city, the remnants of the buildings obscured the sun and cast a heavy shadow over the streets.

  “An Amernian wonder, and all the history and culture of the elves—lost,” said Evrill through her mask as they entered what had once been Capricorn’s bazaar. Many of the merchant tents still stood, their richly dyed fabrics of blues, reds, and yellows faded and stained by time.

  A dragon’s skull sat atop a clutter of planks that had once been a merchant’s booth. Its jaw opened slightly, revealing rows of teeth within, and great curved horns grew from its head. Amernian dragons had been hunted to extinction during the Green War for their phlatorix, an organ found deep within the dragon’s body. The phlatorix had two jobs: The first was to pump lighter-than-air gas through the dragon’s vascular system, allowing them to fly. The phlatorix’s second job was to generate the dragon’s fire. When it was ground into a paste, boiled, and combined with phosphorus and cave spider venom, Nixus was created. Pendragon knelt beside the dragon’s skull and placed a wavering gauntleted hand on the bone. “That’s one thing I miss,” he said, suddenly sounding very old. “I miss seeing dragons fly.”

  “Pity they were of more use dead,” said Shrike. “Puffer fish venom is a potent toxin. Could it not be used as a substitute for dragon guts?” Shrike asked Evrill.

  “No,” she responded. “The phlatorix has to be mixed with the phosphorus to create the gas. Nothing else will do.”

  “Where are all the bodies?” asked Calcifer.

  “It’s been ten years,” Pendragon
responded. “They must have rotted away or been scavenged.”

  “No,” said Shrike. “There would still be traces of some kind. Someone’s been cleaning.”

  A shiver went up Calcifer’s spine. He had read about sorcerers trying to resurrect the dead. To his knowledge none ever had, with the most successful attempts resulting only in making the corpse twitch. However irrational, thoughts of the dead being reanimated made him uneasy. “I want to go home,” said Calcifer.

  “It’s a bit late for that,” Shrike responded with an eyebrow raised.

  “No, not back to the Talon. I grew up here. Capricorn was my childhood home. I want to visit what remains.”

  Pendragon turned to face the elf. “Pierah will be meeting us in the palace courtyard at moonrise. There isn’t time for detours. I’m sorry.”

  “It won’t be a detour,” Calcifer responded. “I used to live outside the palace, in the garden district. It won’t be out of the way.”

  “Well, well, well…” said Shrike, smiling. “I didn’t know you were a rich brat.”

  “My father used to be a smuggler.”

  “A smuggler?” asked Evrill. “How does a smuggler afford a house in the garden district?”

  Calcifer smiled. “He was very good.”

  “Very well,” said Pendragon. “You lead the way.”

  Calcifer did just that, leading his companions through the smooth-stoned streets. Capricorn was devoid of any life, an obvious fact that manifested in the littlest ways. You never realize how much life there is until it’s gone, thought Calcifer, lamenting the loss of weeds between the rocks and the buzzes and chirps of birds and insects. Once, they thought they had caught a glimpse of something living, but it turned out to be an old Harendiir family flag dancing in the wind. Calcifer caught the white banner and inspected the torn and tattered blue sea goat sewn into the cloth. A memento of a time past, he thought as he folded it and tucked it into his jacket. The sky turned black as the sun sank and eventually vanished over the horizon.

  The gardens for which the district was named were browned and shriveled bunches of ruined stems and twigs. “We’re getting close,” said Calcifer, passing a steep-staired marble bank. I bet there’s still gold inside, thought Calcifer. An opportunity that may need to be seized… “This is it,” said Calcifer, putting away his greed. He stared at the broken pile of decaying wood that had once been his home. The doorway still stood, despite the fact that the front and side walls were completely destroyed. The back wall had endured, with a little corner of roof somehow still attached.

  “What happened here?” asked Shrike.

  “Belial destroyed my house and ate my mother in front of me,” said Calcifer bluntly.

  “Belial the hellion?” asked Pendragon. “Former pet mage of the Stolk family?”

  “The same,” Calcifer responded, brushing Evrill’s hand off his shoulder and kneeling before the steps leading to the ruin. Through the translucent green Nixus he found his doorstep and wiped the ash from it, rubbing it between his slender fingers. Gazing upwards at the door frame, he could still see the notches where his mother had marked off his and his sister’s heights as they grew.

  “Hurry up—we don’t have all day,” Shrike urged.

  Evrill cut Shrike off. “Shut up and give him some time. The Wild Hunt can wait a moment longer.”

  “I’ll only be a second,” said Calcifer, running his finger in a circle through the ash. A small blue flame erupted from where he touched the rock. One for my mother, he thought as he traced another circle. And one for you, Monica. The second flame grew a bright green. “We can go now,” Calcifer said, leaving the flames burning behind him.

  The Marble Trident, former home of King Harendiir, towered over the garden district’s wall. The three white spires were ringed with columns. The middle tower was the tallest and was flanked by two which were half its height. The homes became progressively more upscale as the Marble Trident appeared closer and closer. The checkered tiles lining the road turned to dirt as the Marble Trident grew larger and larger. Calcifer almost tripped over the first mound.

  “What was that?” asked Evrill.

  Calcifer knelt down and groped around in the fog. His hands found something hard and pulled it up. The number 036 had been neatly chiseled into the rock. Why? he thought as he dropped it back into the Nixus.

  Calcifer gave a swish of his finger and a massive gust of wind pushed and curled the Nixus fog away from the street and pushed it against the buildings. The road was filled with graves, all numbered: 057, 145, 560, 974. The numbers increased the further they walked. There were graves down every corridor and every alley: 1008, 1356, 1789. There were even graves inside the entrances to homes and cafes. 2319, 2602, 2890. They walked upon a road paved with corpses.

  “At least we know where the bodies went,” said Shrike, visibly upset for the first time. Pendragon was silent.

  Treading over the graves became awkward and clumsy. There was an uncomfortable silence amongst them. Someone’s treated them with great care, thought Calcifer, noticing a pile of road tiles neatly stacked in a storefront.

  The gate to the Marble Trident lay propped against either side of the surrounding wall. “We’re supposed to meet Pierah here,” said Pendragon as he stepped into the courtyard. Graves were dug in a winding circle around the central fountain whose waters had long since stopped. Behind the fountain a pair of sea goat statues, near identical to the pair on the bridge, guarded a tall escalating series of staircases leading to the palace.

  “Where is she?” asked Calcifer, who had been expecting to find Pierah waiting.

  “She will be here soon,” said a deep hollow voice that was muffled as if spoken from inside a tin can, echoing throughout the abandoned courtyard. A gilnoid strode down the left staircase, his face shielded by a gas mask with a long tubular hose that dangled almost to the ground. His body might have been eight feet tall if he stood straight, but the gilnoid was hunched and heavily scarred. He was naked except for a loincloth, and he dragged a heavy shovel behind him that dinged along the steps as he descended.

  “Pierah said she would be here,” said Pendragon. “Are you with the Wild Hunt?”

  The gilnoid did not answer until he reached the bottom of the stairs and seated himself upon the edge of the fountain. “No,” he said, his voice a raspy echo. “They are killers and scoundrels,” he wheezed painfully. “They and I are not friends.”

  “Well, then, why are you alone in the middle of a dead city?” asked Shrike, his arms spread in exasperation. “Did you get lost?”

  Eyes shielded behind dirty glass turned to the dwarf. “I am the Bedmaker. I give the dead sleep….”

  What sort of madness inspires a creature such as this? thought Calcifer. “So all these graves were dug by you?”

  “Yes,” said the Bedmaker. “I know not their names,” he wheezed again. “So I give them a number, and a bed. You travel with humans, elfkin. Be you Queensguard?”

  “What about Queensguard?” asked Shrike. “Have you seen them?”

  The Bedmaker began to cough and grabbed his ears tightly in his fists. “I did. They came here looking for Huntsmen, but the Huntsmen found them first. Sat for days before I found them. Started to reek. I buried them under the palace floors. They sleep now.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Bedmaker,” said Evrill, fixing her mask.

  “The dead don’t betray. Like humans, like elfkin. I fought for the boy usurper. When he lost the war, my dwarfs turned on me. They forced me. I worked in a lab, cooking chemicals. Hurt my head, my brain. I escaped north. Took the mask from a dead horse. He didn’t need it. I did. Wandered for days until I found my city. Ate dried root and water. The water burns when it goes down, but it keeps me full. The dead are my flock—no betrayal like the live men bring. Now they only sleep, and dream.” An eerie silence followed the Bedmaker’s story. No one seemed to want to be the first to speak.

  A banging courtyard gate broke the silence. The pa
rty turned to see a young woman standing under the archway, casually leaning on the wall. “Knock, knock,” said the girl. “I see you’ve met the Bedmaker. Sorry, he’s a bit of a drag.”

  “Hello again, Pierah,” said Pendragon dryly.

  “Pendragon!” exclaimed the girl, running forward and throwing her arms around the knight’s armor. Her blond hair tumbled out from a short yellow turban. Pierah was a wild-looking thing, clad in fur and boiled leather. Her arms were bare, though she wore a pair of tall rayskin boots. “You managed to bring quite the company, didn’t you?”

  Her enthusiasm is obnoxious, thought Calcifer as the stench of Pierah’s exuberance hit him. Becoming a hellion was not an instantaneous process. Mutation was like a drug, and as with most drugs, few ever became addicted their first time. Eventually the changes would become irreversible with repeat transformation. Perhaps somewhere in Archipelago a sorcerer had been able to resist power’s temptation, but Calcifer hadn’t met him.

  “You managed to bring Shrike!” said the girl, extending a hand.

  “Charmed,” said the dwarf.

  “And this must be the Bottler,” said Pierah, her eyes looking Calcifer up and down before settling on his tankard. “You can bottle me any day.”

  “No, thank you,” he responded, failing to keep the contempt from his voice. “I’ve had my fill of whore.”

  Pierah laughed. “I bet you have.” She winked and turned her attention to the Duchess, bowing low. “An honor to meet you, Duchess. The Wild Hunt is quite fond of you. You’ll be a great help to this one during the trial,” said Pierah, nodding at Pendragon.

  “What trial?” asked the knight. “Why wasn’t this mentioned during our negotiations, Pierah?”

  “Well…” said Pierah sheepishly. “The boss wasn’t happy. I promised you amnesty without approval. You are going to be tried for war crimes.”

  Shrike giggled. “Does the Wild Hunt not understand irony?”

  A gauntleted hand tore the gas mask from the metal dragon’s mouth. “And what if I lose? What then?” snapped Pendragon.