Daughter of War

by Brendan Wright

  "Very well. A successful mission. The Duulshen thank you for your service. We will discuss this matter with you when you return from your next mission."

  A new mission already? The Duulshen never assigned missions so close together. Something terrible must have happened. Scenarios raced through her mind, each worse than the last; a predator had started attacking the fishers, or Ermoor had some weapon she hadn't learned about in time, or the Tarsi were moving against Shanaken... But when they spoke, she froze. The words sounded wrong. Sure that she'd misheard, she asked again.

  "Forgive me, great Duulshenza, but what did you say?"

  "The warrior who failed the Shadow Trials, Dakesh Zakiil, has stolen a Kaizuun and fled Shanaken."

  No. It just didn't make sense. Dakesh was one of her closest friends. She knew he was smitten by her, of course, but she'd never given him false hope, and they shared a deep and genuine connection. All the time she'd known him, he never once acted like that. He had a fiery spirit, anyone could see that, but stealing the blade of a Kaizeluun? It couldn't be. She realised the implications of their words, slowly waking to the full horror of the situation.

  The Kaizeluun were the elite, the absolute best in a culture that strove for perfection. They were tried, trained, and worked harder than any warriors in Pandeia. So when they passed their Trials and named Kaizeluun, they became closer than family. For a Shadow Blade to be stolen, its wielder would need to be dead. The situation still didn't feel quite real, but she pushed herself into asking anyway.

  "Which Kaizeluun fell?"

  "Kailen Deshai."

  She was sleeping. That was the only answer; she was asleep, and this was a nightmare. One of her only best friends had been killed, and the other stole his blade and fled the country as a fugitive. It was pure insanity. An overwhelming wave of sickness crashed over her, and she felt suddenly certain she was back on the dank ship leaving Ermoor, delirious and hallucinating. But the Duulshen didn't joke, and never lied.

  Before they said it, she knew the specifics of her new mission; there was only one thing they would send the best of the Kaizeluun to do. Desperately hoping the words wouldn't be spoken, but knowing they would, she could only stand in silent terror and mourning as the Duulshen assigned the mission.

  "You must find the traitor. Bring him and the Kaizuun back to Shanaken. If he will not come, kill him and bring the Kaizuun back to Shanaken where it belongs."

  Epilogue

  Lord Commander Arthor Symond stood tall, his hands clasped imperiously behind his back as he stared at the army before him. Prime Overseer Hayne stood nearby, smug and self-assured as ever. Arthor's right hand man, Commander Eli Barton, stood next to him, eyes scanning the soldiers. Twenty years of work stood before him, twenty years of honest work, with no creature involved.

  Arthor's forearm pulsed painfully. Every now and then it ached, deep and sharp, and nothing could take his mind off it. From the wrist up, it was artificial, a new invention that allowed him almost the same movement as a real hand. It was the least Riffolk could have done after destroying his hand.

  To the public, Riffolk had been kidnapped by Mathys, who was masquerading as the fictional "Spectre" and in league with Shenza savages in order to carry out a treasonous plot against Ermoor and the Twelve Crowns. He'd been miraculously saved by the Lord Commander himself, before Mathys escaped and fled the city.

  The story left a sour taste in Arthor's mouth when he first told it, but he told it anyway, and the public listened. They always listened. He wondered how many things they'd been told that weren't true; how many secrets the Twelve had kept even from him.

  That had been just over twenty years ago, and Mathys still hadn't been seen. Ellie never returned from Tarsium, and no longer wrote back to him. He was a different man now anyway; she would be better off with whatever new life she'd chosen. He hoped she was happy and safe.

  But everything he'd done, the lies he'd told, the people who died, all of it, led to this moment. The army before him was finally ready. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers, outfitted with the latest technology in armour, weaponry and communications, stood ready to fight.

  Vehicles stood behind the soldiers, war machines the likes of which the world had never seen. Riffolk called them tanks, and they would lay waste to anything in their path. He'd watched Riffolk's demonstrations a few years ago, and was deeply disturbed by their destructive power.

  Building the weapons, armour and vehicles had taken a long time. Without Riffolk's creature, which remained unfound, they were forced to use the factories that relied on power gleaned from Tyra and had to be manned by workers from the poor districts.

  The voice was speaking to him less now, but he wasn't sure if his thoughts were completely his own any more either. He still occasionally felt doubt about what Ermoor was doing; but even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't go against Prime Overseer Hayne. Not any more. He had nothing to fight with, nothing but his life; and Riffolk held that in his hands.

  As conflicted as Arthor felt sometimes, he was at least relieved to be on the right side of things; he was the right hand of the leader of Ermoor. With his fortune returned after his wife fled the country, Riffolk was the most powerful man in the world. Ten years later, he'd been named Prime Overseer, and the 'Twelve Crowns' had stepped down; he was the first public ruler in Ermoor's history since the actual Twelve Kings of old. And the first sole ruler ever. Ermoor was his. Arthor was his. And after his armies set sail, Pandeia itself would be his.

  He stared out at the vast army before him, their shining black armour gleaming in the morning sun. Even knowing they served him, they were terrifying. None would stand against them for long. The giant ships they'd built were waiting at Onyxport, ready to take soldiers and tanks across the sea. Arthor glanced at Riffolk again.

  "Give the order, Lord Commander," he said without making eye contact.

  The soldiers stared at him, unmoving; disciplined, lethal, and ready. Their weapons, glowing from the power that fed them, were held steady in well trained hands. An unstoppable army, with a brutal and bloodthirsty goal; total control, total domination.

  "Soldiers," he said into the amplifier, "to Onyxport. Board the warships, prepare for battle. For the good of all!"

  The synchronised reply of the soldiers was deafening; and even to Arthor himself, it was terrifying.

  "FOR THE GOOD OF ALL!"