“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.
Bershad figured it was best to wait. Word would be passed down from wagon to wagon until it reached a sentry, and then a few of them would come riding up to kill him. Unless, of course, the king had been gracious enough to let his wardens know he was coming. Bershad doubted that. King Hertzog was an old, stubborn man who did not forget grudges. And he held a large grudge against Bershad.
While they waited, a few of the nearby peasants built mud statues and muttered prayers, but mostly they just stared at him. As expected, a group of Malgrave wardens rode from the main gate a few minutes later. Bershad counted twenty of them, which was a bit of overkill to deal with one wayward dragonslayer. Rowan dropped the salted pork he’d been eating and moved to Bershad’s left. The bystanders backed away, allowing the wardens to surround and level spears at Bershad’s and Rowan’s throats. All of them wore eagle masks to show that they were sworn to the Malgraves.
A high-warden cleared a path for himself through the circle of mounted soldiers. His eagle mask had a bright orange slash of color running down the middle of the beak that made him stand out from the group. He wore a dark green cloak and his mask had a mane of blue horsehair attached to the back—as befitted his rank.
“Did you get lost, dragonslayer?” he said, as if this happened to him every morning and he had grown accustomed to the occurrence.
“I’m here on orders from the king,” Bershad said.
“Funny, so am I. Except he says I’m to kill any dragonslayers I see. What am I to make of this discrepancy?”
Bershad knew his type—educated and highborn, but not very important. He was probably the third or fourth son of a small lord and was being groomed for a high-ranking station in the king’s army so he’d be useful to the family when his older brother came into his inheritance.
“We have a letter, signed and everything,” Bershad said. “If your men promise not to kill me when I move, I’ll retrieve it from my pocket.”
The high-warden nodded. “They promise.”
Bershad pulled the king’s letter from his inner breast pocket and tossed it up to the high-warden, who caught it deftly with one hand, keeping his other on the hilt of his sword. A good soldier, Bershad thought. Never letting his guard down. The high-warden read the note, checked the seal in the light of the sun, and then nodded at his men, who lifted their spears toward the sky in unison.
“Eaolin, Shermon. Get off your horses.” The high-warden removed his mask and hooked it to his hip. He was young for an officer—bright blue eyes and an aquiline nose. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Bershad.” He smiled. “We best head inside the city. Bad policy to keep the king waiting.”
* * *
As they rode toward Floodhaven, the high-warden kept pace next to Bershad.
“I apologize for not recognizing you,” he said.
“We know each other?”
“My name is Carlyle Llayawin.”
Bershad had been right—Llayawin was an old but minor house of the Dainwood rain forest.
“My father served your father for many years,” Carlyle continued. “And I was in the crowd when you rode for Glenlock Canyon with your army. I am sorry for the way things ended for your family.”
A lord from the Atlas Coast would never talk to Bershad with such empathy—the king’s ire toward Bershad was their ire. But men of the Dainwood were more independent. Bershad appreciated that.
“How has house Llayawin found the new leadership?” Bershad asked. “I understand Elden Grealor has a different way of running things.”
“Different is the word,” Carlyle agreed. “Lord Grealor has no respect for the forest. He’s built lumber mills all over the Dainwood and gotten rich off the industry. Dainwood lumber is worth a fortune, seeing as nobody had a chance to buy it until recently.” Carlyle paused. “Apologies. It must hurt to be reminded of your homeland.”
“The Dainwood isn’t my home anymore,” Bershad said. “I don’t give a shit what Grealor does with it.”
Sometimes Bershad almost believed that lie himself.
“All the same, it’s not right.” Carlyle grimaced. “That’s why I took my men and came up here. Swore my sword to Princess Ashlyn Malgrave.”
The mention of Ashlyn’s name turned Bershad’s mouth dry. On their trip south, he’d tried to avoid getting mired in daydreams about seeing her again. He hadn’t been successful.
“You didn’t swear to the king?”
“Technically, I’m the king’s man, of course. But Hertzog Malgrave didn’t have much love for five hundred Deepdale wardens looking for a new master. He kicked us over to Ashlyn to work the city’s defenses. There isn’t much glory in the life of a watchman, but being honest, I’m glad for it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve had my fill of raids and skirmishes, and the king still runs plenty of those. Need to keep the high lords in line, and all that. No, guarding a wall and sleeping in a real bed each night suits me just fine. And I know that Ashlyn Malgrave won’t go ordering me to chop down a forest anytime soon.”
“No,” Bershad said, swallowing. “She won’t.”
They rode down a large avenue toward the castle. Smaller roads and alleyways darted in and out of sight to their left and right—packed with carts, people, and doorways into different shops.
Castle Malgrave rose in the distance. It was an ancient fortress—the foundations built upon the highest point in the area centuries ago. The granite walls stood eighty strides tall. Beyond them, four tall spires poked into the sky. The two shorter towers stretched to an even height, four times as high as the city walls. The tops of those towers used to be archers’ nests, but had long since been converted to plush chambers for visiting lords and royalty. The upper rooms of one tower were blackened and damaged on the western side. Bershad squinted, trying to make out the details. The masonry was saggy and deformed. It looked more like melted wax than solid rock.