by C D Tavenor
“Neither are they,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.
Empress Emelia rises from the bench, and I follow suit, but she motions for me to sit back down. “Trallius, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my private garden? You are supposed to tread here by invitation only.”
“Dear sister, I’m here to protect you from this beast.”
He’s purposely choosing to speak in my language, I note. He wants me to hear his words . . . and he doesn’t want his followers to know what we say, perhaps? Alternatively, he doesn’t care.
“He’s not a beast,” says Emelia.
“Fine. Accursed one. Demon. Whatever you want to call him; I’m not sure the exact word in this vile language. But tell him—why was your friend in the forest that day?”
“It doesn’t matter. As Maripes said, war is war.”
“So he has corrupted your thoughts? Can we trust you as our Empress?”
Trallius slides his hand to his side and pulls a sword from his hip. My sword. The sword built for the prince. My hand slides to the hammer looped across my back before I realize my mistake.
Trallius shouts a command in their language, and Emelia’s gaze darts toward me. “What are you doing?” The foes close in around us.
“He means to harm you,” I say. “He thinks you intend to kill me.”
“No, he means to harm you,” she says. “He cannot touch me.”
“You’re wrong.” I slide the hammer from its sling, resting it in my hands. Trallius approaches, and I circle, the sycophants approaching from under the trees.
“Give it up, Maripes,” Trallius says. “Your people are liars and cheats. You send wolves in sheep’s clothing to us, but you have only one thought on your mind. You wish to topple our Empire.”
“Trallius, stop,” Emelia orders, still in my language. “Maripes is harmless.”
“Just like the soldier in the woods? The one sent to assassinate both of us in our sleep?”
Before either of us can reply, the parties converge. I swing with my hammer, but it’s easily blocked by one of the lesser inquisitors. I’m too tired from building the sword all day. They grab my arms, knock the hammer to the ground, and push me to my knees.
Emelia steps back, holding her hands out. She stumbles away from me, and Trallius stalks toward her, blade in hand.
“You see, Maripes, it’s pretty simple. I have the weapon you made. You are in the Empress’s garden.” He pushes Emelia toward a hedge. “I found you here, the blade still wedged in her stomach.”
“Trally, what are you—”
The sunsteel blade darts forward, slicing with terrible beauty. Piercing her dress, she lets out a gasp and falls to her knees some ten meters from me. Her eyes are filled with pity and sadness.
“I tried to save your people,” she mutters, her words barely audible. “I tried.”
◆ ◆ ◆
My thoughts drift in and out of consciousness. Images of Vona, back home, and Mono, scouting in the borderlands. A stray memory hits; it shatters my resolve. Mono is marrying Ero in the spring. I never could have imagined a more perfect man for my son, and I’d miss their wedding. I never even had the opportunity to mail my letter.
The hours pass, the beatings continue, and days and weeks blur together in icy, burning pain. I don’t know how much time passes, but suddenly . . . light blinds my eyes. I’m shoved into an arena, an executioner’s block in the center. Inquisitors guide me forward, and I comply. I’m long past opposing the inevitable.
On a dais set off from the jeering crowds, the High Inquisitor stands tall, a golden scepter in his hand. Next to him, the prince watches, anger in his eyes. The boy couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, but at his hip, the sword I made for him rests. I can see it now; a boy told by his uncle to use the weapon to enact vengeance against an evil enemy. A boy, now the holder of the throne . . . yet for the next half-decade, his uncle will rule as regent. He will certainly bring war to my people. He’ll have his opportunity to destroy us, the so-called accursed.
I step onto the wooden platform. I failed. Emelia hadn’t failed—I had. I wasn’t vigilant. I wasn’t ready for the games played by the imperial tyrants of an empire crushing its people, and my own, under its heel.
I can’t understand any of the words echoing throughout the stadium. Of course, the High Inquisitor doesn’t have a reason to translate his words for me anymore. He’s won. The people are on his side. Though . . . I wonder. I remember the teachings of our priests: In the final hour of our people, The Lord of Light will return.
“Lord,” I whisper. “I have forsaken your truth. I have failed our people. History descends toward our darkest hour. We are the People of Light, your humble servants. Join them, and rend our enemies as they strike our lands.” The executioner pushes me to my knees, and I lean my head onto a stone block stained with dried blood. “With my life, accept this prayer, and may Mono, and my love, Vona, find peace and safety in your arms.”
With a whistle, the blade descends.
Legion of Mono
If only they’d known us as something more than simply accursed. For we are so much more.
V
Incense wisps through the air. Plated in gold, the shrine flickers in the dancing candlelight, spraying shadows on the sandstone walls of the room. Kneeling before the shrine, facing west toward the setting sun, I pray.
“My lord, have you forsaken us after all this time?” My left fist flexes. “We are the last bastion of our people, yet you have not stepped onto the battlefield to protect us from their endless hosts. Without end, they pour through the passes, yet you have not brought upon them disasters to halt their slaughter. Where are you?”
I prostrate myself on the floor, spreading my arms wide, palms facing the ceiling. Breathing in, the smoke-filled air rushes into my lungs. I savor the flavor, the bitterness of the incense scratching the inside of my throat.
“Today, we face our enemy on the greatest of battlefields. On your battlefield. I ask for a sign. I ask that you bring us victory.” My eyes close, my mind envisioning the future I know I’ll never see. “I ask that you smite our foes so that our children can live in peace, as we once lived in peace before the enemy arrived at our gates. Lord of Light, hear my prayer.”
Propping myself up onto my knees, I swing both arms against my chest, pounding my pectoral muscles. Satisfied with my prayer, I stand. “Ero,” I call through the door, “I am ready to begin.”
The door opens, and my husband enters, carrying a pitcher of oil and a basket of rags. His spindly elbows dangle at his sides in his unassuming grey tunic. Those arms hold our family together, even as I leave for battle after battle, breaking his heart. Even in this final hour, he doesn’t object, not once.
And the rose! A single rose from his garden rests in the basket.
“You look beautiful today,” Ero says.
“You always look beautiful,” I say in return. “Is Ermo asleep?”
“She is. She believes you said farewell last night, but also believes you will return by the end of the week.”
“I will return by the end of the week.”
It’s most likely a lie, but he won’t push the issue. We can’t afford to lose hope, even to each other, even if we both know the Holy Empire cracked our resolve years ago.
I slip out of my white tunic and strip my loose cloth pants, standing naked before my spouse. As much as I love him, though, it’s not a romantic ritual. All across Lethotar, my soldiers join me, all embracing the Spirit of Rejuvenation.
I bow my head, and Ero approaches with a pitcher of oil. The golden liquid drips into the creases of my neck, down the muscles of my shoulders, and into rivets and crevices, forming vertical streams and pools. The coolness of the liquid invigorates me, my skin glows.
As the final drop of oil leaves the pitcher, my husband sets it before the shrine to our Lord. From the basket, he takes the rags, gently smoothing the oil into a sheen across my entire body. His touch comfort
s me. It reminds me: I am loved.
After each rag absorbs the oil, Ero says three words. In death, life.
My love places each used rag in the empty oil pitcher. When the final rag lands, he circles me twice with a still burning stick of incense before it follows the rags. The sealed pitcher ignites, and flames lick the air just above its rim.
“In death, life,” I say. I try to smile, but I can’t lift my cheeks. The pain overpowers me.
Still without clothes, I walk toward the closet near the back of the room. Before I reach it, Ero squeezes my bicep. Turning me, my husband holds the rose in his other hand. I don’t say a word, and Ero places the rose, sheared of its thorns, between the gold ring looping through ear cartilage and my bony head.
I pull Ero into a tight hug, kissing him on the forehead. “I will return to you and Ermo."
“Yet you will not, if it is your duty to die.”
I close my eyes, knowing my husband speaks the truth. He always speaks the truth. “I will only die if it means you have died also.”
Ero kisses me on the lips and leaves the room. Even if I see him before I leave, it’s our final moment together. Before hell arrives, before the soldiers of the Holy Empire arrive to obliterate us, he accepts my duty one last time. I cherish the moment in my heart. The rose means more than Ero can ever know.
I return to the closet, opening the door. In the center, neatly folded in an open drawer, leather underclothes lie ready. I slip into them, buttoning the shirt and tying the belt. Above the drawer, my hand-forged armor hangs, gleaming brilliantly in the candlelight.
It’s time to face my fate, and the fate of my enemies, on the battlefield. I step into my armor, ready for war. This responsibility will break my bones.
I remember the battle of two weeks ago vividly, at the Gates of Vicor. The fortress guarding the only viable mountain pass into the Caris Valley withheld the probes of the paleskin armies for two years—until they arrived with overwhelming force. We lost Commander Tathias, and the Second, Third, and Fourth Legions. They held the line—we escaped to hold another line for a few days more. I remain the sole surviving commander of our military.
Satisfied my armor is ready, I grab my spear from its stand. I walk into the living room of our small abode. Ero sits near the fire. Ermo must have awoken, for she’s bundled in my husband’s arms, snoring. Ero’s asleep too, so I approach them quietly, lean down, and kiss them both on their foreheads. I reach the door, look back at my family one final time, and whisper, “If only we could have done more to save you.”
Entering the evening air, I look down toward the war camp slowly forming outside the city gates. I’m both terrified and looking forward to our final stand. Their army has entered the Caris Valley; they’ve given us no other choice. The forward scouts arrived two nights ago, informing the Council that “the enemy approaches with a thousand swords, a thousand bows, and a thousand horses.”
So just one week after our retreat to Lethotar, just one week after I reunited with my family, just one week after my Ermo’s fifth birthday, I once more step toward the battlefield.
◆ ◆ ◆
They first arrived in the night.
Fifteen years ago, on my second tour along the slopes of Mount Wistir, Zet and I tracked paleskins we thought were just smugglers, infecting our frontier villages with their scummy drugs and drinks. Instead, we found so much more.
Sliding down a rocky slope, we followed their hour-old trail. Reaching the bottom, I looked back just in time to watch Zet stumble into a boulder.
“You’re making too much noise,” I hissed.
“Oh hush,” Zet replied. “They’re probably trembling in their boots, knowing we’re on their trail.”
We continued, the path leveling off and into the forest adorning the mountain. After another few kilometers, a branch snapped. I took my spear from my back, Zet unsheathed a dagger, and three seconds later, two paleskins zipped out from behind a grove of pine trees, intent on attack.
We were ready, however. I whipped my spear toward the first vagabond, and it sliced him in the chest. Zet threw his blade, the steel digging into the second enemy’s skull. Just like that, the battle ended. We approached our victims.
They wore grey cloaks with red trim, belted at the waist with a black and gold clasp. Lying next to my foe, a book written in a language I couldn’t read splayed across the moss. Hanging from a gold chain from his neck, contrasting against the blood dripping from his chest, I noticed a silver triangular pendant. The man coughed, his eyes staring with terror up at me as his life drifted toward the abyss.
“These aren’t smugglers, Zet,” I said. “This one’s an Inquisitor of the Holy Empire.” At the sound of my words, the assailant trembled even as life slipped from his grasp. “They aren’t supposed to come near our border, though, based on the peace established after the Border Wars.”
I glanced at my fellow scout. He slid his weapon out of its target, tilted his head toward the sky, and sniffed. “I smell smoke,” he said.
The scent registered inside my nostrils, too. “That’s no ordinary smoke,” I said. “We must hurry.”
Leaving our enemy to rot in the woods, we sprinted into the underbrush to the north. For three more kilometers, our run took us in and out of old-growth forest, beneath the great veliper trees and cresting redwoods. At last, we reached the ridge overlooking the frontier town of Ut’ome.
Except it was engulfed in apocalyptic fire. Surrounding the small village, we could see the banners of the Holy Empire, our supposed new ally in this world. Hundreds if not thousands of troops watched the flames eviscerating the bodies of our people piled in the center of the village.
“My father failed,” I said. “They’ve chosen total annihilation.”
I dropped to my knees on the ridge, but Zet placed his hand on my shoulder. “Mono, we don’t have time to mourn. You know all too well they’ll do anything to acquire what it is they desire. We must return to the Three Valleys. We must warn our people.”
VI
I call my spear Flame of Maripes, the weapon given by my father when I graduated from the Academy of War. Crafted from sunsteel and moonstone, the fire of his soul always burns in my hands when I fight. His presence is by my side as I approach our war camp outside Lethotar, our Fortress of Light. As the tents come into view, I stare longingly back up the streets of the only true home I’ve ever known. Oblivion will not claim the final refuge of my people. Except—I know it will.
Built into the sheer rock face of Mount Intir, the streets run zigzag across the rocky face and deep into the ground. I know those tunnels well—I helped dig some of them. My eyes halt on one outcropping, behind which my house nestles. Where my family rests. Ermo’s hardly a baby anymore, but she’ll always be a tiny bundle of joy in my heart. Lethotar could crumble to the ground, but if Ero and Ermo are safe, I’ll have succeeded in my duty as a husband and a father.
Beneath the cliffs, the city spreads atop the slopes and foothills of the mountain, roads and bridges crisscrossing from hill to hill and stream to stream, forming an intricate network of agriculture, commerce, and life. The first night I met Ero, when we were still children, we created a makeshift raft, placed it in one of the aqueducts, and foolishly believed we could sail out of the city and into the river.
It sank in three minutes, the beams drifting apart.
The memory almost forces me to return home. My feet twitch, but my head involuntarily tilts toward the war camp, my duty. I turn away from the visage of Lethotar and its environmental majesty. Below my vantage point, the rolling hills surrounding our capital intermingle with patches of farmland and forest. Beyond the outskirts of hamlets and villages, the valley spreads. In the distance, a snaking gap in the trees forms the path of the Caris River, flowing out of Lethotar and toward the Chasm, where we’ll make our final stand.
Death rests on the faces of my brothers and sisters in arms inside the camp. Like me, Zet stares longingly back at Lethotar, holding h
is warhammer over his shoulder, his massive shield on his back. It’s nearly impossible for me to believe we’ve been by each other’s side for every day of this war. As I step into the center of camp, he looks up. He nudges my fellow Masters, and they call for their troops to drop their work—their commander has arrived.
Though I want to flee back to the arms of my husband, my feet somehow pull me onto the stump in the middle of the camp.
“All rise for the words of the Master of the Spear, Mono, son of Maripes, Commander of the Fifth Legion of Lethotar,” says Wikar, my first lieutenant, standing dutifully below me. “His words are law, and we will follow them to the letter, to our last breath.”
The first ritual words before each battle. Today, they hold truth I’ve never heard before. I place a hand on Wikar’s shoulder, his muscles loosening at my touch. Inhaling sharply, my attention turns toward my soldiers.
“My brothers and sisters,” I say, “today, we fight for the freedom of our people. For fifteen years, we have fought this enemy, and we have had many victories, but we have also had many defeats.” I internally sigh—I can give them more hope than that. Those words are weak. “Our true victory? Not once, not once have our people wavered. Not once have we given up in the face of overwhelming odds. Even as we march to war today, our people continue their lives in Lethotar. They prepare for what is to come, they prepare for their flight into the caves, into the deep, into the world beyond our own.”
My eyes turn toward Reata, my Master of the Bow. She’s glancing from soldier to soldier, but she subtly nods, acknowledging the truth in my words. I add, “Yet even as they prepare, they live. They go to school. They worship our Lord. They love. They argue and fight, and they believe in us.”
