He gripped his sword's hilt. It was the simple, unadorned weapon of a common soldier. Fleeing the capital, Leresy had left his true sword behind—a priceless artifact with a filigreed blade, a platinum hilt shaped like a dragonclaw, and a scabbard glittering with more jewels than most treasure chests. That weapon probably still lay in the Bad Cats, but his new sword, grabbed from a Lecher who'd fallen to fever, could still kill.
"Bloody bollocks, Leresy!" said one man, a drunken fool with flushed cheeks, a week-old beard, and red eyes. He tottered forward, clutching a tankard. "When are you going to share your woman with us?" He waved his drink around. "I haven't tasted me a woman since I left the capital."
Stumbling forward, he reached toward Erry's backside.
With a growl, Leresy drew his sword, swung it down, and severed the man's hand.
Erry yelped and jumped. The man screamed. Across the camp, men stumbled back and cursed.
Leresy stood shaking. Damn him! Damn the man! His sword wavered in his hand. Blood pounded in his ears. He could barely see through his rage.
The maimed man stumbled back, clutching his stump, and tripped over a root. He crashed to the forest floor and writhed. Leresy stepped above him and raised his sword, prepared to finish the job.
"This one is mine!" he shouted. He looked around the camp at the men who watched. His eyes burned, and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. "You hear that, sons of dogs? Any one of you touches my woman, I'll slice you into a woman and give you to the camp!"
He swung his sword down.
"Leresy, no!" Erry cried and slammed into him.
His sword drove into the dirt, missing the wounded man by an inch.
Leresy slapped her.
He slapped her so hard Erry stumbled back and clutched her cheek. Her eyes widened, and her dog barked madly, and the world spun around Leresy.
Damn it, I didn't mean to—
"I'm sorry," he whispered and reached out to her. "Erry, please, I'm only trying to protect you, I…"
She glared at him, still clutching her cheek, and shook her head wordlessly. She grabbed her dog's collar and ran back to their tent.
Leresy stood, his bloody sword still in his hand. He felt everyone staring at him. Nobody said a word.
Stars damn it, he thought. Stars damn these men and stars damn Erry.
He lifted the fallen tankard and drank what ale remained inside. He tossed the empty vessel down.
"I'll let this one live!" he announced. "See my mercy. Any one of you other dogs lays a hand on what's mine, I'll cut that one too."
A few of the men were grumbling. A few clutched swords. Their eyes darkened and Leresy swallowed, suddenly afraid. There were a thousand of them, and each one was older and stronger.
Without my embroidery and armor, am I still a prince here, or only a man for them to slay?
He gritted his teeth, refusing to show fear. His father had to deal with a rebellion among his people; Leresy wouldn't allow the same misfortune to strike him.
"You shall have women!" he shouted, raising his sword high. "Have I not given you women before? You will have ten thousand more! We travel south to Terra Incognita, to the great unknown grasslands east of Tiranor. There are dusky women there of legendary beauty. They run topless through fields, clad in only skirts of grass, and they crave northern men to pleasure. We will rule them!"
This assuaged the men. A few began to cheer, and soon the rest joined in.
"We will be lords of our new kingdom!" Leresy shouted. "I've given you food, drink, and gold. Stay with me, and soon we will live as kings!"
They howled their approval, waving food and drink and fists, and Leresy took a shuddering breath.
Oh stars, he thought, please let there be women in that forsaken land we seek. If we find nothing but empty grasslands, they'll have my head… and Erry's body.
He was about to return to his tent, speak with Erry, and try to make amends when wings thudded overhead.
The foliage rustled and bent, and Leresy cursed. His heart thudded, and for a moment, he was sure the Legions had found them. Before he could flee, a lone brown dragon crashed down through the canopy, landed in front of Leresy, and shifted into human form.
Leresy glared at the man and spat. "Damn it, Yorne. I thought you were my damn father. I told you—we don't fly in daylight, not until we leave Requiem."
Yorne spat too, expelling a great glob Leresy thought could drown a rodent. The man had served in the Legions for twenty years; he'd worn six red stars upon his armbands before Leresy had ordered the Lechers remove their old insignia. The son of a lowborn fisherman, Yorne had never gone to Castra Academia, but he had served the Legions long enough, and he'd slain enough men, to fight alongside generals and send troops to die. Tattoos of dragons coiled across his ropy arms, and his shaggy hair could not fully hide a scar that snaked across his head. He was a tall man, the tallest among the Lechers, but gaunt and weathered as a strip of dry meat.
"Your father's busy dealing with bigger problems," Yorne said. He cleaned his teeth with his tongue. "Big news stirring across the empire. The Resistance has taken Cadport."
Leresy snorted. "Cadport? It's a damn backwater. I visited once and couldn't tell their fort apart from their latrines. Who cares?"
Yorne raised his eyebrows and thrust out his bottom lip. "Aye, a backwater to us, but fifty thousand folk live there. It's the largest town on the southern coast. Lots of dragons, if the Resistance has them shifting and flying against the capital."
Leresy stomped toward a campfire, grabbed a roasting sausage, and bit into it. The skin cracked and juices filled Leresy's mouth.
"Let them fly," he said. "Let them burn down the damn capital. I care not. Let all of Requiem burn! We are the Lechers. The unknown lands beyond the sea will be our kingdom. Let the Legions and the Resistance kill each other until none are left."
Yorne nodded, eyebrows still firmly raised, and scratched his chin. "More like the Resistance is going to be slaughtered, seems. Your sister's mustering an army in the ruins of Castra Luna. Whole brigades gather there, and more troops arrive every day. The emperor himself will arrive with the Axehand. They'll invade Cadport by winter, they say, and stamp out the Resist—"
"I care not!" Leresy said. "Damn it, Yorne, I don't give a damn about Requiem politics. We travel overseas, and—"
He bit down on his words.
He understood.
His heart leaped.
Oh bloody shite.
His sister. His father. The two people he hated most—traveling south into battle. There would be cannons firing, dragons flying, blood and chaos and death.
It will be my chance, he thought and clenched his fists. My sweet vengeance.
His thoughts returned to his last night in the capital. Shari had dragged him by the hair from his fort, tossed him at his father's feet, and seen him banished. She had stolen his fortress, leaving him nothing but a wretch.
But now, sister, now you fly to war. And when you crash against the Resistance, a host of bloodthirsty barbarians, beware… beware of the shadow at your back.
Leresy licked his lips and grinned.
"Yorne," he said, "get this camp cleaned up. I want men wearing their armor. I want guards on patrol. I want some discipline here, damn it. Whip these warriors into shape!"
With that, he spun on his heel, left the men, and stomped back toward his tent.
When he stepped inside, he found Erry sitting on the cot, hugging Scraggles and muttering curses. She raised damp eyes and glared at him. The mark of his hand still shone red upon her cheek.
He approached her. She hissed and tried to rise. He shoved her down, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and forced her to look at him.
"Dearest little urchin," he said. "Poor, pathetic little wench. What do you know of pain?"
She growled. "If you strike me again, I will slay you."
He grabbed her arms and yanked her to her feet. She stood before him, glaring up at him, her hair
tousled. Leresy caressed her bruised cheek.
"I promised that you will be my southern mistress," he said. "I promised you a land of wild grass, endless summer, and lazy days of sun and starry nights. To the Abyss with that." He placed a finger under her chin, kissed her forehead, and twisted his lips into a grin. "I will make you the concubine of an emperor."
VALIEN
He stood upon the breakwater, staring out into the sea, and remembered the day he met his wife.
Boulders formed the breakwater, their lower halves green with moss, their upper halves white with gull droppings. The waves slammed against the stones, turning from gray to blue and showering foam. The breakwater ended with a cairn, and there rose Lynport's lighthouse, a tower of empty windows, craggy bricks, and memories of better days.
Valien grumbled as he walked across the slick boulders—this was easier when he was younger—and placed his hand against the lighthouse. The old bricks were clammy and mossy, but he remembered years ago when this tower was new, when he had climbed its steps to view the sea and found her above.
The lighthouse doors had rotted or burned years ago. Valien stepped through the archway and climbed the stairs again, the first time he'd climbed them in twenty years. Shattered clay jugs, an abandoned glass bottle, and an old shoe littered the steps now. A feral cat hissed at him, bristled its fur, then fled. But as Valien kept climbing, he barely saw the stairway's current state. He saw himself a young man, twenty-one years old and only knighted that summer, visiting fair Lynport to protect the sea.
He reached the lighthouse top. He stepped into a round chamber where no more fire burned. Today this chamber was empty but for a discarded mattress, a cracked pipe on a windowsill, and three kittens nestled in the corner. Outside the windows, the sea stretched into the horizon, a gray sheet splotched with patches of green and blue where the water was shallow. But when Valien closed his eyes, he saw this chamber twenty years ago. A great beacon had burned here then, the fire shimmering behind glass panes, and upon the sea a dozen southern ships had sailed, bringing their treasures into Requiem.
"And you were here, Marilion," he whispered. "You shone brighter than all the beacons in the world. You guided me home."
He could almost see her again at the window, watching the sea. She had worn a white dress that day, its hem stained with salt and sand, and her feet were bare, but Valien had never seen a more beautiful woman. Her hair cascaded down her back, the color of honey, and when she turned toward him she smiled.
"Good morning, my lord," she said. "I'm sorry. I've come to watch the sea."
She was a commoner, born and raised in the south, her only jewelry a string of seashells. She was wild and beautiful, a creature of sea and sand. Standing beside her, Valien felt stiff and awkward in his armor, a relic of ancient tradition, out of place here like some dusty grandfather clock in a fairy fort.
She laughed. "Can you speak, sir knight?"
He cleared his throat. "You have nothing to apologize for. This is your town. I've only just arrived here from the capital. I serve in Castellum Acta. I—"
"You talk too much," she said and laughed again. "Listen! Do you hear it?"
Valien listened. He heard it—the waves whispering, the seagulls calling, and the forest rustling. The girl returned her eyes to the sea, inhaled deeply, and a smile touched her lips.
"I sometimes stand here silently for hours," she whispered. "The sea speaks to me."
They spent many days that summer standing in the lighthouse, walking upon the shore, or ambling between the shops along the boardwalk. During lazy days, they caught fish and cooked them on campfires, and Marilion would play her flute and he would sing softly. At nights, they would lie upon the sand, watch the stars, and hold each other. In the autumn they wed in this very lighthouse.
Valien stood in the barren chamber, twenty years older, his hair now wild and grizzled, his armor dented and dulled, and lowered his head.
I took her with me to the capital, he thought, and agony burned his throat. She never returned.
Valien closed his eyes and clenched his fists. The emperor's words from last winter echoed in his mind; they hadn't stopped echoing since.
"Marilion lives!" Frey had shouted, cackling and bleeding. "She lives in my dungeon, you fool!"
Valien's fists shook. His teeth grinded. Fires burst inside him.
With a howl, he opened his eyes and pounded the wall. Blood splattered his knuckles, but Valien felt no pain. He panted and growled and shook.
"You lie!" he hissed. He stormed toward the window and stared out at the sea, as if Frey hid among the waves. "You lie, dog. She died. I saw her die! I held her as she died."
Again the blood danced before his eyes—Marilion lying upon the bed, Frey's sword in her chest, her eyes glassy and still.
"I held you," Valien whispered. Tears stung his eyes and his voice shook. "I held you as your soul rose to the starlit halls. You've been waiting for me there, Marilion."
And still Frey's voice echoed, cackling madly. "She lives!"
Valien clutched the windowsill, fingers trembling.
He was lying. He was trying to break my mind, to drive me mad. He's lied so many times before.
With a shuddering breath, Valien turned from the window and left the lighthouse.
He flew over the city, a silver dragon, slower and wider than he used to be, his left horn broken off years ago. Lynport stretched below him, a crescent moon of houses and streets embracing the coast. The cliffs of Ralora rose west of the town, while forests rolled into the north. The southern sea whispered, a deep blue patched with green, lines of foam racing across it. The smell of seawater filled Valien's nostrils even up here.
He flew toward the northern walls that separated wilderness from city. They rose a hundred feet tall, overlooking oaks, maples, and pines, the trees golden and red and filling the air with their scent. A dozen dragons hovered above the walls, wings beating, holding four cannons aloft. Below upon the battlements, men waved, cried out, and guided the cannons down into place. Dozens of cannons already topped the battlements, pointing north toward the capital.
We took a hundred guns from Castra Luna, Valien thought, gliding toward the walls. Yet ten thousand warriors will descend upon us, maybe more. These guns will not hold them back for long.
He spotted Kaelyn standing in a turret, a small guard tower that jutted out from the wall. Valien filled his wings with air, descended, and landed outside the structure.
Around him across the wall, men scurried to bolt cannons down, and dragons hovered above, their wings whipping Valien's hair. Valien knew he should walk among them, inspect the batteries, encourage the troops, and prepare for battle. But he only stood, staring into the guard tower, and his throat constricted.
The turret was only large enough for a single archer. Kaelyn stood inside, her back to Valien. She held an arrow nocked in her bow, and she stared out an arrowslit, watching the forest. Wind whistled through the embrasure and ruffled her golden hair.
And suddenly she was not Kaelyn, and she did not stand in a turret. She was a woman years ago, standing in a lighthouse, her hair billowing in the sea breeze. Valien stood staring and his eyes stung.
"Damn you, Kaelyn," he whispered.
Damn you. Why do you have to look like her? Why do you have to fill me with those memories, with that old sweet pain? Why do I have to fight not to hold you, not to love you, not to lose you?
She turned around and saw him, and a smile split her face, showing white teeth—her smile.
"Valien," she said. "How are the defenses along the boardwalk?"
He entered the turret and stood beside her. While Kaelyn was slim and barely filled the place, Valien felt burly and clunky in here, a bear trapped in a box. He peered out the arrowslit at the forest; it swayed like a sea in sunset.
"The batteries of guns are being raised, and troops are manning them," he said. "A hundred will point to the sea, should the Legions invade from the south. More guns
rise upon the courthouse roof and upon Castellum Acta."
Kaelyn nodded and clasped his arm. "When the Legions arrive, we will triumph."
Valien sighed, a long sigh that clanked his armor and bones. "We will slow them down. We will slay a few. But our outfliers report ten thousand legionaries already mustered in Castra Luna; they call the place Castra Sol now. More will gather there. We have only three thousand resistors and three thousand canyon warriors." He grumbled. "Lord Cain left the bulk of his forces in the canyon. The man is mad, but we will take what help he offers."
Kaelyn's eyes shone. "Our six thousand fight for justice. One man fighting for justice is worth ten who fight under the whips of a tyrant." Her voice softened, and she held his arm. "Valien, I am afraid. I see the same fear in your eyes. But know this: I fly with you today and always. I fought with you in our long years of hiding; I will fight with you now as we make our stand."
Valien stared at the rustling forest, imagining the assault—an entire brigade of dragons descending upon this city. Was he foolish to stay? Could they truly defend this city?
"We need more men," he whispered. "We need more guns. We need more time to train. Damn it, Kaelyn, we've never made a stand before. We've hidden in forests and ruins. We've attacked the Regime, then fled back into shadow. Never have we waved our banners, raised our heads, and invited the enemy to come."
Kaelyn nodded. "It's time to make this stand. Relesar has risen. The banner of Aeternum flies from our towers and walls. I feared battle in Castra Luna, and I cautioned you against it. Yet we flew out, we faced Cadigus in open battle, and we triumphed. I believe we will triumph here too." She touched his cheek, and her eyes softened. "Do not lose hope, Valien. We defeated the enemy at Luna. We will defeat them here."
Marilion lives! She lives in my dungeon, you fool!
The words echoed, and Valien saw that night again: His love in his arms, the sword in her chest, and the blood everywhere… so much blood.
He looked at Kaelyn—her young face, her nose strewn with freckles, her hazel eyes so large and earnest, eager for victory.
A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) Page 12
