I'm sorry, the woman whispered. I'm sorry.
"You… collect them, my lord?" Kaelyn asked, heart thrashing against his ribs.
Gorne was already unbuckling his armor. His breastplate clanged to the floor, sending the women to cower against the walls.
"I bought them," he said. "They are scum, all of them. Nothing but seaside whores who polluted our docks. I gave them a home here. I cleaned up the boardwalk from its filth."
And you bedded them, Kaelyn thought. And you beat them. It took all her will not to snarl. And now you will pay for your sins, Gorne.
"They were like me," she whispered.
Gorne hissed and drooled. "You will be one of them, whore." He tugged off his tunic and boots. "I will break you in before I chain you among them."
As he began to undo his belt, Kaelyn doffed her cloak. She stood before him in her silks, legs and belly bared.
"I am yours, my lord." She climbed onto the bed, lay down, and looked up at him. "Please, my lord, be gentle with me."
He tossed off his trousers and stood naked before her, sweaty and pink. Spittle dripped down his chest.
"I will be as rough with you as I like," he said, walked toward the bed, and lowered himself atop her. "I'm going to hurt you now, and you're going to love it."
Kaelyn reached to the silks around her thigh and drew her poniard.
General Gorne's girth pressed down against her.
Her blade entered his neck.
He gasped. His eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed, struggling for words, dripping blood and saliva onto Kaelyn's chest.
She gave him a crooked smile. "I thought you liked it rough, my lord."
She twisted the blade, and he gurgled. He pawed at her, and his sausage fingers grabbed her throat.
He squeezed.
Kaelyn gasped and stars covered her vision.
She drove the blade deeper. His hand kept squeezing her throat. His blood poured down his neck, yet still he choked her. She squirmed and kicked beneath him. His body pressed against her, thrice her size and slick with sweat.
She couldn't even wheeze. Her lungs burned. She thought he'd snap her neck.
Stars damn it, die! She pulled her blade back. She thrust it again, piercing his shoulder, and more blood flowed, but he kept choking her. His eyes stared into hers, and he licked the blood on his lips.
"You…" he croaked, "will be mine…"
She felt his arousal against her. Panic flooded her and she floundered like a fish.
Oh stars, he's going to bed me here, he's going to take his prize, even as we both die.
Blackness spread across her vision, a midnight sky strewn with stars.
Her legs felt numb.
Her lungs faded into blazing embers.
Before her in the night, she saw the stars of Requiem, the stars of her fathers. The Draco constellation shone above her. She was flying toward it, a green dragon in the night. The starlit halls of her ancestors glowed above, the columns white, and Kaelyn wept for she had failed her people.
I failed you, Requiem.
She winced.
No. No, Requiem. She screamed. Not today! Not today! Someday I will fly to you, starlit halls of spirits, but not this day. This day is for sunlight.
With a choked cry, she thrust her poniard again.
It crashed into the general's mouth, punched through his palate, and crashed into his skull.
His fingers loosened.
Kaelyn gasped for breath.
She sucked in air, a breath she thought could swallow the chamber, the tower, and the sea outside. The blackness withdrew from her eyes like curtains lifted. Her head exploded with starlight.
She kicked, shoving the boar of a man onto the floor. She leaped over the corpse, raced to the window, and kicked it open. The sea breeze whipped her hair and stung her cheeks.
Behind her, the women whimpered. She looked over her shoulder to see them reach out to her, their chains clattering, their eyes pleading. Kaelyn sucked in her breath.
"I will return to you," she whispered… and jumped out the window.
She tumbled down from the tower, silks flapping, her bloody poniard still in her hand.
Before she could hit the ground, she shifted into a green dragon. She beat her wings, whipping the bushes and raising clouds of dust. She soared.
She rose above the tower. Upon its battlements, the two dragons shrieked. Kaelyn blasted them with fire.
They howled, blinded and burning. Before they could spray their own flames, Kaelyn swooped. She lashed her claws and swiped her tail. Blood sprayed. The tower guardians screeched, tumbled backward, and crashed to the hillside in human forms.
Kaelyn hovered above the tower, tossed back her head, and shot a pillar of flame skyward.
The fire crackled, a blazing typhoon. Kaelyn looked to the northern forest, heart thrashing.
Six thousand more flaming pillars rose from the trees. Howls shook the sky. Six thousand of her comrades—dragons of the Resistance and the canyon—rose from the forest, roared, and flew toward the city.
Below her, legionaries were streaming out of the fortress. Kaelyn blew flames, torching the Regime's banners that hung from the tower. She soared higher and cried for the city to hear.
"General Gorne is dead! Lynport is liberated! Legionaries—lay down your arms and live!" Tears budded in her eyes, and she streamed over the city streets, roaring her cry. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky. Lynport is free!"
The Resistance raced over the city walls, wings blasting air. The imperial dragons swarmed from their fort, leaderless, confused, howling and sputtering flame. The forces crashed above the streets and blood rained.
TILLA
She stirred in her sleep, caught in her nightmare's claws.
"No," she whispered and kicked her blankets, struggling to wake up, but the dream pulled her deeper, and the blankets wrapped around her, and Tilla walked down dark halls while eyes burned and faces floated in mockery.
"Lowborn!" they chanted. "Lowborn scum!"
Punishers lashed out. Everywhere she turned, more faces floated, laughing, spitting at her. Lightning burned her. She ran down the hall, but more of her tormenters awaited her there. They leaped from every shadow, demon creatures with masks twisted in eternal scorn.
"I am Tilla Siren!" she shouted, eyes burning. She had chosen the name of her new, noble line; it was a strong name, the name of a mythical creature said to live in Cadport's waters. She shouted it as a charm, a spell to save her from her lowborn roots, from her shameful past upon the boardwalk, from all her dirt and misery here in the purity of the academy.
The other cadets laughed around her, beautiful youths from noble houses, their blood old and pure, their highborn accents meticulous.
"Tilla Roper!" they said, laughing. "Seaside scum. Lowborn whore. Weave us a rope, Roper!"
Again their punishers lashed out.
Tilla screamed and fell. Lightning raced across her, burning her clothes, burning her skin, crackling her bones.
"I am… Cadet Tilla… Siren!" she gasped, but tears ran down her cheeks, incurring more laughter.
They kept burning her. They hunched over her like vultures over prey, and she wept. And she begged. And still they burned her.
"Lowborn worm," one boy said and spat upon her. "Go back to Cadport, peasant."
Her screams echoed through the black halls of Castra Academia.
Her eyes rolled back, and she thought she would die.
But I did not die, her thoughts whispered in the dream, and her fists clutched her blankets. She snarled, struggling to rise from slumber, but falling back in.
I survived!
No matter how badly the highborn beat her, Tilla kept training. She did not quit. When they spat into her meals, she ate sullenly around the spit. When they dumped chamber pots on her clothes, she growled and washed them herself and trained even harder. When they beat her, she fought back, and fell, and hurt, then healed and walked
again.
She fought with swords.
She flew as a dragon down dark halls.
She learned to plan battles, to break spirits, to command.
She was Tilla Siren, a commoner thrust into a fortress full of the children of nobles, and they tortured her, and they beat her, but she fought them and every lash made her stronger.
Every night she clutched the shield Shari had given her, the shield with her sigil—a cannon overlooking the sea, a symbol of home.
I will be like a cannon, she swore every night, lying in whatever filth her fellow cadets had soiled her mattress with. I will be strong as iron. I will slay my enemies. I will outlast sword and fire. She growled every night as her tears burned. I will become an officer.
Tilla thrashed in her bed, opened her eyes, and sat up with a pant.
Cold sweat washed her, and her chest rose and fell. Her heart thrashed. She winced and raised her arms.
"Please, don't hurt me," she whispered. "Please. No more."
But no punishers burned her. Tilla opened her eyes to slits, then let out a shaky breath. She sat in bed, shuddering. The sheets were soaked with sweat.
"Just a dream," she whispered. "Just a memory."
She had survived for six moons in Castra Academia, the great school for the Legions' officers, and she had graduated first among her class.
I am a lanse now, she reminded herself. I wear red spirals upon my shoulders. I command. I'm south in Castra Luna now, far from the academy. I no longer have to be afraid.
She looked down at her arms. The scars of old burns still spread there. Tilla tightened her throat.
"Scars make us strong," she whispered.
She rose from her bed, shivering; the chill of autumn filled the night. Her tent was small and barren, its black walls shuddering in the wind. A hint of light shone through the tent flap; dawn was near. With stiff fingers, Tilla approached her table, lit her tin lamp, and held her hands above it, allowing the flame to warm her.
In the flickering light, she stared down at the weapon on her table. Her punisher.
Hilt untouched, its tip was cold, but when Tilla's fingers grazed the grip, the punisher crackled to life. Lightning raced across the rod's rounded head, red and creaking like shattering bones. She pulled her fingers back and the lightning vanished.
I burned her, Tilla thought, staring down at the weapon. I burned Erry. I burned my friend.
"Damn it, Erry," she whispered, and her throat tightened. "Why do you still have to act like a seaside urchin? What else could I have done?"
Tilla's eyes burned, and she blinked them furiously.
No, she told herself. Show no weakness, not even when alone. Let no pain fill you. You must be strong to survive. She squared her shoulders.
"Only the strong will survive in the Legions," she said, staring down at her punisher. "I had to be strong, Erry. Scars make us strong."
Yet now Erry was gone, a deserter from the Legions, an enemy to be hunted and killed. Now Rune too was an outlaw, calling himself Relesar Aeternum, the heir of the fallen dynasty.
How had all this happened? Only a year ago, Rune had been a humble brewer, and she had been only a ropemaker. And now… now she was an officer in the Legions. Now Rune had a new name, proclaiming himself true king. Now he fought for Valien, the man who had slain Tilla's brother.
They all turned against me, Tilla thought and clenched her fists, and a lump filled her throat. None of them understood. None of them knew the law of this land.
"Cadigus reigns, and his law is the blade, the punisher, and the iron fist," she said, repeating the words she had learned. "The weak must be purified."
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let her own weakness flow away. She let all those thoughts of home drip from her mind like poisoned blood from a wound.
I will be strong.
She dressed in her steel armor, grabbed her sword and shield, and left the tent.
The camp stretched around her, kindled with the first hints of dawn. In the eastern sky above the trees, pink tendrils stretched across blue fading to black, and the stars vanished one by one. In the west, shadows still cloaked the ruins of Castra Luna, hiding the strewn bricks and fallen walls like the midnight sea at home. Around her in the camp, the first siragis—hardened, lowborn warriors—marched between tents. Shouts rang across the clearing, and soldiers emerged for morning inspection.
As Tilla walked between the tents, whatever troops she passed—be they hulking warriors or green youths fresh out of training—stood at attention, saluted, and hailed.
She was an officer now. She bore the red spirals. She was a goddess to them.
When she reached a dirt square, she shifted into a dragon and took flight. She flew across the camp, her white scales clattering, her horns gilded like those of all officers. Below her, tents spread in rows and troops bustled. Five milanxes mustered here, moved from the western mountains, five thousand troops in all.
We will find the Resistance in these forests, Tilla vowed as she flew, and we will crush them.
She looked across the camp to the northern trees. The white tombstones rose there. Hundreds of youths from her home lay buried under that soil. Mae lay among them.
"I will avenge you, Mae," Tilla whispered.
She returned her eyes to the camp. A ring of dragons surrounded a dirt field. In its center rose a towering tent, large as a house and topped with the banners of Cadigus. Golden embroidery formed flying dragons across its black walls. Soldiers guarded the tent entrance, clutching halberds.
Tilla flew toward the field. She landed before the guards, shifted into human form, and raised her chin. The guards saluted her, slamming fists against chests.
I might be only a junior officer, Tilla thought. But I'm the junior officer who saved Shari's life.
She walked past the guards, stood at the tent entrance, and shouted her salute.
"Hail the red spiral! Tilla Siren reporting."
The princess's voice came from within. "Enter."
Tilla stepped inside. Opulence filled the tent, befitting a daughter of Cadigus. A plush bed, armchairs, and giltwood divans stood upon bearskin rugs. Golden vases of wine, platters of fruits and cheeses, and a roast goose topped a table. Racks of swords, helms, and breastplates stood everywhere, a collection worthy of an armory, all belonging to the princess of the empire.
That princess stood clad in black armor, its plates filigreed with golden dragons. Her longsword hung at her left hip, her punisher at her right. Her mane of brown curls cascaded across her pauldrons. Her back was turned to Tilla; she stood before an easel, staring at a parchment the size of a door. Upon the parchment appeared a sketch of a castle, its dozen towers lofty, its walls topped with cannons.
"Castra Sol," Shari said softly, not turning to acknowledge Tilla. "Fortress of the sun. It will rise from these ruins, thrice the strength of old Castra Luna." She caressed the parchment, fingers gloved in black leather. "It will be mine to command, a glorious castle built for one purpose—to crush the Resistance."
Tilla took a step farther into the tent.
"They toppled this fort, Commander, so we will build one larger and greater. For the glory of Requiem."
And for Mae Baker, she added silently. For hundreds of youths from my home.
Shari turned toward her. Her face, tanned a deep gold, had aged six years in the past six moons. Shari was only twenty-nine, but weariness filled her dark eyes, and the first lines of an eternal frown had begun to frame her lips.
She's beginning to look like her father, Tilla thought. A face as hard, cruel, and unyielding as stone.
"Tilla, we've received reports from the south. The news is grim." Shari reached for the table, grabbed a mug of wine, but did not drink. "We've been betrayed. House Cain has joined the Resistance. Rebellion flares in the south."
Tilla sucked in her breath. "They say Lord Devin Cain is mad! They say he's not left his canyon since we crushed his last rebellion. Does he fly ag
ainst us?" She clutched her sword. "We will crush him again! Let him fly to us. We will slay him and his men upon the forest. We—"
"Tilla," Shari said, her voice softer, and ghosts filled her eyes. She winced and her left arm twitched—the side where she'd lost her wing.
"Commander?" Tilla whispered, and suddenly fear flooded her.
There is worse news, she thought and her innards trembled.
"Valien and Cain have joined their forces, and they've struck in the south. They've taken Cadport. The city has fallen."
Every weapon in this tent seemed to stab Tilla with cold, biting steel that drove the breath from her lungs.
Cadport fallen. My home. My father.
She couldn't help it. She trembled. Red flooded her eyes.
Cadport. My home. My father.
Her eyes stung and her breath shook.
"We must fly there!" she finally managed to say, speaking through stiff lips. "We will crush them, Commander. I will slay this Valien myself, and Cain, and the rest of them, and—"
Shari clutched her shoulder and glared.
"Soldier!" the princess said. "Calm yourself. Do not forget your station. I command this garrison. You command a mere phalanx. Steel yourself and stand straight." Her voice softened, her grip loosened, and she sighed. "Tilla, I know this news is difficult, but please, listen to me. Sit and drink my wine. We will not leave Cadport in their hands."
But Tilla would not sit. She would not drink. The tent swam around her.
"We have to save Cadport," she whispered. Rage flared through her, and she drew her sword. "We must slay them, Commander!"
Shari bared her teeth and grabbed Tilla's wrist. Tilla was among the tallest and strongest women in this camp, yet Shari stood even taller, and she snarled down at her like a lion staring down a wolf.
"Tilla Siren," she said, "the Resistance has given us a great boon."
"They've captured my home, Commander!" she said. Her voice shook. "They will slay the people there. They—"
"They have emerged from hiding," Shari finished for her. "They muster in a city we know, a city we can attack, a city we can trap them within. We will not let Cadport remain in their hands. Five thousand troops garrison here now, and already dragons fly to bring my father the news. When he hears of Cadport, the wrath of the Legions will muster here… and descend upon the city."
A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) Page 10
