Tilla breathed heavily, chest shaking. "We will lead the charge. We will kill Valien and his men."
"But we will take Relesar alive," Shari said, and her eyes blazed; she still clutched Tilla's wrist. "You will capture him, Tilla. You will capture the heir of Aeternum, and you will carry him to the capital in your claws."
Rage pounded through Tilla. Fire pumped through her veins and spun her head.
Relesar Aeternum. She means Rune.
She thought of him again, her dearest childhood friend. The boy she would wrestle. The boy she would whisper and cry with. The boy she had kissed upon the beach and vowed to see again.
The man who led the Resistance into these ruins, she thought, who slaughtered hundreds of our townsfolk, who now brings war to our home.
She took a shuddering breath, squared her shoulders, and stared into Shari's blazing eyes.
"I will capture him," she whispered. "He will be ours."
RUNE
He stood upon the balcony where, only moons ago, Shari had slain a girl and severed her head. He squared his jaw, took a deep breath, and gazed down upon thousands of townsfolk who filled the square below.
Rune had faced crowds many times in the past year. He had spoken to hosts of resistors in their shadowy halls. He had fought thousands of legionaries in battle. Yet standing here, facing the people of Lynport, he felt very young and nervous, and his head spun. The crowd covered the square below—tradesmen, children, farmers, and even legionaries who had stripped off their insignia after Gorne's death. Rune wore armor now, the plates bright and the pauldrons wide, and he bore the longsword of kings, yet facing this crowd, he did not feel like a warrior or royalty.
I feel like a young brewer again, he thought.
He looked aside. Valien stood at a doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His hair hung wild around his leathery, scruffy face. He wore his old patches of steel over hardened tan leather. Rune wanted the man to guide him, to speak for him, but Valien didn't even step onto the balcony. He only stared at Rune from the doorway, eyes inscrutable, saying nothing.
Rune turned to look at Kaelyn. She stood beside him upon the balcony, clad in her forest garb: tall deerskin boots over gray leggings, a green tunic with a golden belt, and a blue cloak. Her sword hung at her hip, her quiver hung over her shoulder, and her golden hair billowed in the breeze. She raised her hand, two fingers pressed together in the salute of the Resistance, and spoke to the crowd.
"People of Lynport!" she said. "I've asked you to gather here today. I see skilled tradesmen, the heartbeat of this town. I see farmers, the pillars of our society. I see warriors—men who abandoned the cruelty of Cadigus, tore off their red spirals, and joined the light of old Requiem. I am Kaelyn Cadigus! I am the daughter of the tyrant. I am here to tell you: That tyrant will fall! You are free."
She stood panting and her eyes glistened. She paused as though expecting cheers or applause. The people, however, only stared at her silently. A few muttered.
Rune sighed. Kaelyn has always seen the resistors as heroes. She will learn not all see us the same.
With a tug on her quiver's strap and a clearing of her throat, Kaelyn collected herself. She raised her chin and kept speaking.
"People of Lynport! I present to you your new king—the true king of Requiem. Here stands Relesar Aeternum, son of Ardin, King of Requiem." She knelt, eyes damp, and stared up at Rune. "May the stars bless him."
She paused again, craned her neck up, and peeked down at the crowd. She seemed to be waiting for them to kneel too, but the crowd only muttered louder. One man grumbled, shook his head, and turned to leave the square. The rest bustled restlessly.
"Kae," Rune said softly, "I don't think they care much about old dynasties here. We're far from the capital."
She rose to her feet and glared at him. "Of course they do!" she said, turned back to the crowd, and raised her voice. "Do you not remember House Aeternum, people of Lynport? Relesar is heir to an ancient dynasty, to—"
One man below groaned. "That there's only Rune Brewer!" he shouted up at her. "Bloody Abyss, the boy sold me ale about a hundred times."
"More like a million times, Tam," said the man's wife and poked his ample gut. "Boy darn well turned you into a boat."
Nervous laughter spread through the crowd. One woman, emboldened by the chortling, pointed up at Rune and cried out.
"I used to watch him as a babe, I did! Changed his swaddling clothes more than once. Boy sure knew how to soil them!"
The laughter grew, and Rune felt his face redden. Wearing armor definitely wasn't making a difference now. Desperate, he turned to look at Valien. The gruff old knight stood in the doorway, muttering and fuming, his eyes dark. Rune wanted to plead with him for help, but Valien wouldn't even meet his gaze.
The crowd's laughter grew, and more people called out their own stories of Rune—how he'd once cried when his father wouldn't let him keep a stray kitten, how he'd walked into a cart when gaping at a pretty woman whose skirts had blown in the wind, and how his singing voice once caused flowers to wilt—honest to goodness, half a dozen people saw it.
Rune only stood sighing upon the balcony, but Kaelyn shouted over the crowd.
"You speak of your king!" she cried, face red and eyes blazing. "Relesar is descended of a proud dynasty, of legendary Queen Lyana who founded this city, of the great King Benedictus who fought the griffins, and of the first King Aeternum himself who raised the marble halls. Relesar is a light upon Requiem, and—"
Rune placed a hand on her shoulder. "Kae," he said, "I don't think they're listening. Let me try."
She bit down on her words and spun toward him, fuming. Pink splotches spread across her cheeks. She seemed too enraged to even breathe. Rune looked back at the crowd below. They were still laughing, and many were leaving the square.
"People of Lynport!" Rune shouted out to them. "My friends. Listen to me please. For just a moment."
Grudgingly, they turned back toward him and watched, silent. Rune felt his head spin—so many eyes stared at him!—but forced himself to plow on.
"Look," he said to the crowd. "You're right. Don't follow me because I'm so-and-so fancy king's son. Don't follow me because I'm Relesar Aeternum, an heir from some old legend. You're right, I'm just Rune Brewer."
At his side, Kaelyn gasped and began to object, but he held up his hand, hushing her.
Rune continued speaking to the crowd. "Follow me because I'm Rune Brewer. Follow me because I'm nothing but a common son of this city. Follow me because I know what it's like living here, because I felt the scourge of Cadigus, because I—like you—saw the light of our home fade."
This got their attention. Their mirth died, and the people stared up at him, silent and listening.
Rune took a deep breath and saw Tilla's father in the crowd, a tall and wiry man with black hair. Rune pointed at him and spoke for the people to hear.
"Heri Roper, you used to sell many ropes to sailing ships. Traders from Tiranor docked here often, and your shop thrived. When the Cadigus family burned the kingdom of Tiranor, and our port rotted, you lost your livelihood." Rune turned toward another woman. "Meti Weaver, you used to sell silk to the south. You ran a shop full of seamstresses. Now you can barely sell cotton to hungry folk too poor to buy it." Rune turned to another man. "Your three sons were taken away from this very square, carted off to the Legions, and never returned."
The crowd mumbled, but this time nobody turned to leave, and no scorn filled their voices or eyes.
Rune looked upon them—his people, his townsfolk, his friends. He glanced over at Valien, and the man stared back, and now his eyes shone with approval. He gave Rune a small nod and an almost imperceptible smile. Rune turned back toward the crowd below.
"We all lost something to the Cadigus family," he said. "Some of us lost our livelihoods. Some of us lost our faith; this courthouse where I stand was once a temple to the Draco constellation, our forbidden gods. Some of us lost our
loved ones. How many people did the Regime murder in this very square, beheading or whipping or breaking them upon the wheel?"
Eyes in the crowd darkened. People muttered and cursed. Anger brewed below like a sea about to erupt into a storm. But the anger was not directed at him, Rune knew. He raised his hands and spoke louder.
"Do not listen to the lies of Cadigus! They told you the Resistance is evil, that resistors hunt and kill for sport. The Resistance is not your enemy, but your ally."
Some in the crowd looked skeptical, but others were muttering their agreement, especially those old enough to remember the days before the tyrant. Voices began to rise in cheers, crying out their approval. Rune spoke louder to be heard above them.
"I am Rune Brewer!" he said. "I lived on the boardwalk. The Regime murdered my father and burned my home. I say: We are not Cadport, named after a tyrant who crushed us under his heel. We are a far older, nobler city. We are Lynport and our light will shine again." He shouted for the city to hear. "The tyrant must fall! We will fly as dragons again."
Below in the square, the crowd stared up silently. Tears filled the eyes of elders. Fire and passion filled the eyes of youths. One young woman, a farmer holding a basket of fruit, raised her head and cried out in a clear, high voice.
"Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
The crowd repeated the forbidden prayer, tears fell, and Rune knew: They were his.
"Blessed be the children of Requiem," he whispered, looking upon his home.
Kaelyn reached out and held his hand, her eyes swimming with tears, her lips whispering prayers.
Rune held her hand, turned his head, and looked across the roofs of Lynport. Beyond the city walls, golden forests rolled into mist.
Frey Cadigus waited there. The Legions would be mustering.
Frey will descend upon this place with all his wrath and malice, Rune thought and shivered. Today Lynport is free. Tomorrow blood will soak these streets.
The people sang for stars, for Aeternum, and for Requiem, but Rune only shivered and held Kaelyn's hand tight.
LERESY
"No!" he said and slapped her hand. "Damn it, girl, I told you a million times. The griffin only moves two squares."
Erry glared at him over the board of Counter Squares, a game of the capital. Her lips twisted in a snarl; she looked to Leresy like some puppy trying to seem fierce.
"This game is bloody complicated," she said. "You said the griffin can move diagonally across the—"
"That's the dragon," Leresy said and rolled his eyes. "By the Abyss, woman, do you think a griffin would beat a dragon?"
The pieces were arranged across the board: griffins, dragons, phoenixes, and other creatures carved of obsidian and ivory.
Chewing her lip, Erry reached for an obsidian wyvern that stood upon a white square. Leresy slapped her hand again.
"No, Erry, if you move your wyvern, my salvana will capture your mimic. See?"
Erry fumed, her face red. "No it won't," she said. "Do you want to know why?" She leaped to her feet and tossed the board sideways, sending pieces flying across the tent. "Because I bloody quit this stupid dumb game you just invented!"
Leresy looked at the pieces strewn across the ground. "Counter Squares was invented hundreds of years ago."
"And it was bloody dumb then too!" Erry crossed her arms and sulked. "Who the Abyss ever heard of stinkin' griffins hopping squares, and phoenixes that can't even fly, and ivory codpieces—"
"Those are salvanae, Erry, true dragons of the west."
"Well they look like codpieces to me! Sweaty, stinking ones." She snorted. "You fancy-arse nobles with your fancy-arse games. Burn me. Give me a mug of ale, a sword to swing, and a song to sing, and I'm happier than playing any game for prissy princelings."
He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist. "I'll give you something else."
She raised her chin and shot him a haughty stare. "What is that, princeling? Another la-dee-da game a little princess taught you to play?"
He rose to his feet, pulled her from her chair, and glared down at her.
"Your big mouth is going to get you into trouble one day," he said.
She smirked. "Am I in trouble now, oh lord princeling?"
He wanted to think of some clever retort, but he was too busy tearing off her clothes; they always came off so easily in his hands. She stood naked before him, smirking, no taller than his shoulders and slim as a twig, and yet she heated his blood to a boil.
He grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her to his bed. Her eyes closed, and he took her until finally the smirk left her face.
When he was done with her, again he wanted to kick her out of his bed, out of his tent, out of his camp. Stars damn it, he was Prince of Requiem, and no woman deserved sharing his bed. Yet again, as always, he only lay on his back, and she lay in his arms, her head upon his chest, and he stroked that short, brown, boyish hair of hers. She mumbled something sleepy, and he kissed her forehead, and his heart felt more confused than all the rules to all the games in the world.
What is it about you, Erry Docker? he thought, looking down at her as she slept, her cheek against his heart.
She should be nothing to him. She was nothing. She was only flesh, that was all. Only a body to warm his bed and feed his hunger. She meant nothing to him, nothing! She was no better than any whore from the Bad Cats back in the capital.
Leresy took her twice a day, morning and night, and sometimes a third time at noon, thrusting into her, using her to vent all his rage, all his grief, all his pain. And she never made a sound. She did not moan, or yelp, or cry. She never wept. She never demanded love or affection or money or power—any of those things all the women in Leresy's life had demanded. She simply let him use her as he would, a doll, a toy, that was all… and then slept in his arms, her head upon his chest.
And he used her. Not for his physical needs—those had lost all flavor—but to drown the pain that forever clawed his chest. To forget the capital. To forget Nairi. And so he took her again and again, and every time he did, he could forget a little more.
"Stupid, sweaty codpiece dragons," she mumbled, and he stroked her hair, and she fell silent, her sleepy breath tickling his chest.
"Stupid, sweaty, seaside urchins," he answered softly, his arms wrapped around her.
Slowly, night by night, Leresy came to realize that more than he craved her sex, he craved to hold her. More than he wanted to enter her, to grab her, to claim her body, he craved to stroke her hair, hear her mumble, and feel her breath against him.
You came to my camp muddy and scruffy and screaming like an enraged beast, he thought, holding her close. But in his arms now, she was a frail doll, delicate and pure and so fragile she seemed made of porcelain.
And slowly, he came to feel ashamed of how he'd scorned her that first day.
"Erry Docker," he whispered. "You stupid, stupid girl."
In the morning, he walked through their forest camp. Campfires crackled around him. Men lay snoring, cursing, or squabbling over their last sausages and eggs. Some men had risen early and were banging swords together, eyes grim, still soldiers even here in the forest. Many had drawn black dogs on their shields, and some had sewn black dogs on their sleeves; Erry's mutt had become something of a mascot. As Leresy ambled through the camp, surveying his men, a smile tingled the corner of his lips.
"Good morning, you bastard prince of lechers!" one man shouted out.
Leresy gave him a mock salute. "Go shag a dog, you son of a whore."
The man roared with laughter, grabbed a skin of ale, and drank deeply. The brew dribbled down his bare chest. Few men here were better dressed. Armor lay strewn across the camp, dulled and muddy. Men roamed about shirtless, barefoot, and scruffy. Most had not shaved for days.
Leresy looked down at his own raiment. A year ago, it would have disgusted him. He wore nothing but the garb of a forester: tan breeches, a rough black tunic, and a green cloak. Yet he did not miss hi
s fine embroidery or filigreed plates of steel.
Those were trifles of the capital, he thought, grabbed a turkey leg from a wandering drunkard, and bit into the meat. He chewed lustfully. Here we are true men of mud, steel, and sweat. The capital can burn to the ground.
Tears stung his eyes, but Leresy furiously blinked them away and gnawed his meat with more fervor.
"Quite a camp of disciplined soldiers you've got here," Erry said, walking at his side. Her dog trailed behind her, sniffing at campfires and catching scraps the men tossed his way.
"They are hardened men," Leresy said. "True men, not bastards like my father, and not soft boys like that so-called King Relesar. They will build me a kingdom."
As they walked through the camp, many men paused from eating, drinking, or fighting and gaped at Erry. Drool thick with crumbs dribbled down some men's chins. Erry was perhaps as scrawny and short-haired as a boy, but she was the only female in camp, and these men had seen no other woman in many days.
Sooner or later, I'll have to keep her guarded and chained in my tent, Leresy thought, or I'll have to share her with the camp.
The meat tasted foul in his mouth, and he tossed the turkey leg aside, grabbed a jug of wine from a man, and drank to cleanse his mouth. Thinking of Erry naked and writhing beneath these muddy, scruffy men disgusted him.
Why? he wondered. He had shared his women with these men before. He had dragged many of his whores from the Bad Cats to his barracks, allowing his troops to share in the flesh.
He looked at Erry. She was still walking beside him, one hand on her dog's back, the other clasping a bread roll. She was chewing vigorously—stars, the damn girl never closed her mouth when chewing—and mumbling something about how this camp needed some good fish to cook.
They want her too, Leresy thought as the men crawled toward her. They will try to take her from me.
A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) Page 11
