A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  I cannot lose you too, Kaelyn. I cannot tell you how much I love you, how little I fear for my own life, how much I fear for yours.

  He touched her cheek, his fingers so coarse and calloused against her pale skin. She smiled and embraced him, and her hair tickled his nostrils.

  I love you, he thought, holding her close… not knowing if he meant a memory or the woman in his arms.

  SHARI

  Dawn rose golden over the forest, and Shari took her ward to see a man tortured.

  They walked through the camp rather than flew. Shari wanted them to walk. She wanted Tilla to see the troops up close, see every spiral upon every breastplate, every eye burning with rage, every sword bright under the sun.

  In battle, she will not command from above, a goddess overseeing her slaves, Shari thought. She will fight among them in the blood and fire.

  And so they walked down the lines. Thousands of troops stood at their sides, three soldiers deep, forming palisades of metal. Their tents rose behind them, banners streaming. They stood at attention, fists against chests, men and women of the Legions. Every soldier wore a black helmet and breastplate; a longsword and dagger hung from every hip.

  "We caught him lurking in the forests," Shari said as they marched down the dirt road between the troops. "He was spying on our camp and armed with a sword. I've broken him in, but I've left most of his flesh for you."

  Tilla marched at her side, face blank and staring ahead. She wore the fine steel of an officer now, not merely a breastplate over a tunic like a common soldier, but full plate armor that covered her from toes to neck. She carried her helmet, a work of art shaped as a dragon's head, under her arm. She had taken well to command, Shari thought; she walked with the pride of nobility.

  "I will break him," the young officer said, no emotion in her voice or eyes.

  Shari smiled.

  Good, she thought. Good.

  Tilla was learning. Shari thought back to the first day she'd seen the woman in Cadport; it was nearly a year ago now. Back then, Tilla had been only a filthy commoner, but Shari had seen something in her even then. Unlike the other peasants, Tilla had not cowered before her. Tilla had not wept, fled, or broken even under the punishers of her commanders in Castra Luna, nor under the punishers of her fellow cadets at the academy.

  Shari smiled. She knew, of course, of Nairi burning Tilla to near death. She knew, of course, of young nobles torturing Tilla for moons in the academy, burning her flesh and breaking her mind. She herself had ordered the punishment.

  It made her strong, Shari thought, looking at the icy young officer. It made her deadly. She will be a great commander yet. She will be like me.

  As they walked through the camp, heading toward the shack where they kept the prisoner, pain flared in Shari's shoulder. She winced and sucked in her breath. The injury still hurt most days. Even in human form, she felt the pain of her phantom wing. The wound had healed across her shoulder blade, leaving but a scar, yet the agony lingered.

  Relesar tore a part of me away, she thought. He crippled me. He made me weak.

  She had her prosthetic wing now, a creaking mechanism of wood, rope, and leather, and she had taught herself to fly with it, even to shift with it. Yet she would never fly as smoothly again. She would never swoop as fast. She would never kill with such deadliness.

  Shari looked over at Tilla. The young woman, ten years her junior, walked clutching the hilt of her sword. Pauldrons covered her shoulders, and steel coated her limbs, yet Shari could see her body's strength. Her every movement spoke of a huntress. Her eyes stared ahead, narrowed the slightest, always scanning for danger, always shining with pride.

  I am crippled, but she is strong, Shari thought. She will grow stronger. She will be my killer, my sweet bringer of death. Shari ground her teeth against the pain. Relesar took my wing. I have taken his beloved from him… and I will make her kill him.

  That would be her greatest revenge.

  They passed the last tents and troops, walked down a path, and reached the hut.

  Small as a prison cell, its walls had been carved from the surrounding forest. The smell of blood, sweat, and urine flared. Flies bustled. Mewling sounded inside, a sound like a kicked dog.

  Shari stood outside the door and looked at Tilla.

  "You must make him talk," Shari said. "He will lie to you. He will deny all accusations. Yet you must remain strong, and you must hurt him. For the glory of the red spiral, we must shed blood."

  Tilla stared at the hut. Her face remained still and pale, but Shari saw small signs of her fear: a twitch to her lips, a line on her brow, and a shadow in her eyes.

  There is still softness in her, Shari thought. There was still weakness here to purify, even after a year of training. Shari allowed a thin smile to touch her lips. I will crush that weakness. She will be my perfect killer.

  "I will make him talk," Tilla said.

  Shari nodded, opened the hut door, and they stepped inside.

  The man cowered there, if he could still be called a man. Blood and welts covered his flesh; he looked no better than a rotten corpse. He winced in the light, huddling deeper into the corner, clad in chains. Shari herself had given him these wounds. It was something Tilla had to see. Training was clinical. Battle was chaotic. Here before her bled the true face of war.

  "Please," the man whispered through cracked lips, "no more, please. I'm only a quarryman, I—"

  Shari drew her punisher and held it against him.

  Lightning crackled across the man. He yowled and writhed on the floor, and still Shari held her punisher against him. She waited until his skin cracked and bled, then finally pulled the weapon back. The man lay twitching, smoke rising from him.

  "You are a resistor," she said. "You serve Valien Eleison, the traitor. Why else would you lurk in the forests outside our camp?"

  "I work in the quarry!" he said, blood in his mouth. "Please, ask the men who work there; they all know me. I cut bricks for this very fort! Please…."

  Shari looked over at Tilla, studying her. The young woman stared down at the burnt man, face pale and lips tight.

  This still frightens her, Shari thought. Blood and burns still twist her innards. She will have to be hardened. Shari nodded. I will harden her soul like a smith hammering a blade.

  "Tilla," she said, "draw your punisher. Burn him."

  Tilla hesitated for just an instant, the length of a breath, and her eyes gave the slightest blink, her lips the slightest twitch. But Shari saw it, and she vowed to eradicate that weakness.

  "Yes, Commander," Tilla said and drew her punisher. Its tip crackled to life, racing with red energy.

  And she burned him.

  "Keep it there," Shari said. "More. Keep it burning."

  Tilla obeyed. She held the punisher against the screaming man until welts rose, skin cracked, and blood spilled. As she worked, Shari stared at Tilla's eyes, watching, studying, smiling when she saw the weakness fade into grim intent.

  "Enough," she said.

  Tilla pulled back, leaving the wretch to writhe and mewl, half dead but still whimpering about his quarry.

  "Now draw your blade," Shari instructed. "Slice his belly. Make him bleed out. We will not give him the mercy of a quick death."

  Tilla hesitated again. Her hand closed around her sword's hilt, but she did not draw the blade.

  "Commander," she said, "should we speak to the quarry? Maybe—"

  Shari laughed. "You believe his lies? Resistors always lie. The punishment is death. He should be thankful for that. We could have kept him alive here for moons, even years. Cut him! Slice him open. He serves the Resistance, the rebels who slaughtered your friends, who captured your town. Even now, they slaughter innocents in Cadport."

  Tilla's eyes burned with rage and pain. Her cheeks flushed and her lips twisted. With a hiss, she drew her blade.

  "Cut him!" Shari commanded. "Make it hurt. He would do worse to you."

  Tilla clenched her jaw. "For
Cadport," she whispered… and lashed her blade.

  The man screamed. Blood gushed from his stomach. He clutched at the wound uselessly. Tilla stared, and her fingers trembled, and her eyes flinched. She raised her blade again, prepared to strike the killing blow.

  "No," Shari said. She caught Tilla's wrist, holding her sword back. "No."

  Tilla looked at her. Sweat beaded on her pale brow.

  "Commander," she said. "I can kill him. I—"

  "Let him die slowly," she said. "It's good enough for him. Come with me, lanse. We'll let him die alone."

  They left the hut and returned to the sunlight. When Shari looked at Tilla, she found the woman still pale, yet her eyes were dry and her lips tightened.

  "Killing is hard," Shari said. "But it gets easier. Harden your soul, and you will kill many more for the Regime." She slammed her fist against her chest. "Hail the red spiral!"

  Tilla returned the salute, chin raised. "Hail the red spiral."

  "Return to your phalanx. We prepare for war. Soon we will fly to Cadport, and we will face the Resistance in battle… and you will face Relesar again. And you will be ready for him."

  With that, Shari shifted into a dragon and took flight, her true wing thudding, her prosthetic creaking. She rose above the camp, filled her maw with fire, and blasted a flaming jet across the sky.

  She grinned as she soared higher. Of course, the man was only a quarryman. But Tilla didn't have to know that, and Shari had enough quarrymen to spare. What mattered was not another death, but Tilla's soul—a soul Shari would break and reshape into her greatest weapon.

  When she rose high enough, Shari saw the entire camp sprawled below. Across the ruins of Castra Luna, her workers were digging ditches, raising scaffolding, and building the first walls of her new castle, the glorious Castra Sol. In the forest clearing beyond the construction, her army mustered, ten thousand strong, men and women all in steel, drilling and saluting and preparing for battle.

  Shari turned her head north. The forests sprawled red as blood into distant mist. Upon the horizon, she saw dragons fly, thousands of troops joining her from their northern forts.

  More will muster here, Shari thought. We will gather in strength, a great hammer ready to fall. We will fall upon the south, and Cadport will burn.

  Shari howled, roared her fire, and grinned.

  ERRY

  She walked through the forest until the sounds of the camp faded behind her. Scraggles walked at her side, tail slapping branches and bushes, and gave her a plaintive look. The dog could feel the sadness inside her—Erry knew that he could—and he licked her fingers.

  "Come on, Scrags," she said and gave him a pat. "We have to keep moving."

  Shouts rose behind her.

  "Erry!" The prince was hoarse. "Damn it, Erry, come back here."

  She kept walking. She was small and sneaky and silent. She had lived for years alone upon the docks, fleeing wild dogs and those who'd steal her food or break her body. If she did not want the Lechers to find her, they would not.

  "We'll find a better place," she said softly to Scraggles, keeping one hand on his back as they walked. "Leresy can go eat furry bear droppings."

  Scraggles wagged his tail in approval, and they kept walking through the forest. She had to move slowly—dry leaves carpeted the forest floor, crackling beneath her boots, and there were plenty branches to snap underfoot. But she was far enough now. They would never find her, not if they uprooted every tree here.

  Erry reached into her pocket and fished out her medallion. She gazed at it—a silver sunburst upon a leather thong. A prayer in foreign letters gleamed upon it. It was the language of Tiranor, which she could not read.

  "Tiranor," Erry whispered, caressing the medallion. "My other home."

  She had never been to that southern desert kingdom. She had never met her father, the Tiran who had bought her mother upon the docks. With this medallion, the sailor had paid for his night of pleasure, then vanished back overseas the next day. When Erry was younger, a feral urchin upon the docks, she would often gaze at this sunburst and dream.

  "The desert is a better place," she would whisper, shivering and cold and hungry enough to eat dead fish. "There are oases there full of dates and figs, and sandstone columns rise into the sky, and my father is a wealthy man. Wealthy enough to have paid for my mother with this silver medallion, not just copper coins. He is a great prince."

  She would weep and dream of flying to that desert, but never did. The Legions had burned Tiranor years ago; everyone knew that. No more ships sailed to Requiem from that distant land. No more life filled the dunes. Her father was dead; the Legions had slain him.

  And so Erry had remained in Requiem. But she had kept this medallion. She never wore it around her neck; if any caught her wearing a symbol of Tiranor, they would slay her. But she kept it always in her pocket. A prayer she could not read. A memory. A hope that a better world did exist out there.

  "Maybe we should fly there, Scrags," she said, walking through the forest, her father's medallion in her hand. "Maybe he still lives out there, a prince of the desert, and we can find him."

  Scraggles licked her hand, and Erry patted him, sniffed back her tears, and kept walking.

  "Erry!" Leresy shouted behind; he sounded hundreds of yards away, his voice so dim, she could barely hear. "Erry, damn it, will you listen to me?"

  She touched her cheek where he'd struck her. It still tingled and Erry sighed. Men had struck her before—many times and much harder. During those long years, orphaned on the docks, she had suffered many bruises and cuts. Men had tried to hurt her for sex, for theft, for pleasure, and Erry had always fought them, and she had always healed.

  "He's just another one of them, Scraggles," she said, a lump in her throat. "Just like the drunkards on the boardwalk."

  She had bedded such men before, so many she could not count. She had given her body for food, shelter, or warmth on a cold night. The other girls in town called her a whore, but the other girls had roofs over their heads and food on their tables.

  "I never took no money," she whispered to her dog. "Never! No man ever paid for me. I am not my mother. I took food. I took a bed and a roof when it rained. But I never sold myself for money."

  And then… then she had joined the Legions. Then she had met Tilla and Mae, two souls she loved dearly. Then she had a roof over her head, even if it was only a tent roof. Then she had food to eat, even if it was only scraps. Then she had protection, a sword to fight with, a home.

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. Yet Mae was dead and buried, and Tilla was dead inside, and here she was again. Feral and alone. Hungry. Lost.

  And now… now, after all these men, it was Leresy, the prince of Requiem himself, who filled the same old role. Now another man wanted her body for food, for shelter, for promises of protection. And again—only days out of the Legions—she was selling herself.

  "But no more, Scraggles," she whispered, and a tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm done with this life. I can't be that old Erry again. I can't let more men beat me, use me, toss me scraps to eat and worthless promises. I'd rather live alone in the wilderness with you, Scraggles, even if we starve to death."

  The forest was thick. The fallen leaves rose above her feet. Bushes, wild grass, and ivy tangled around her legs, rising to her shoulders at some spots. The trees crowded around her—twisting oaks, craggy pines, and white birches with peeling bark. Red and golden leaves rustled above her, hiding the sky. Erry didn't even know in what direction she walked. She couldn't see more than several yards ahead. Yet she kept moving, just to get away from the Lechers, from Leresy, and from her past… from the old Erry she vowed she'd never become again.

  "No more," she whispered. "Never again. I can't go back to the person I was."

  His voice rose behind her. "Erry!"

  He was in dragon form now; his voice was deeper and louder, ringing across the forest. Wings thudded in the distance. Erry kept moving.

&
nbsp; "He can't see us down here," she whispered. "The trees are too thick."

  She kept walking, and the wings kept beating above, and Leresy roared. The trees bent madly and leaves showered down; he was flying right above. Erry found herself gripping her sword but released it with a shaky breath.

  He still can't see me, she thought. This forest rolled for leagues and leagues, and the canopy was thick as a ceiling. The dragon would have better luck finding a single fish in a murky ocean.

  And then Scraggles began to bark.

  "Hush!" she whispered, knelt, and grabbed the dog. "Scrags, quiet!"

  Yet he kept barking madly at the sky, tail straight as an arrow. Erry tried to calm him—hugging, petting, and whispering to him—but he kept barking. Even when she tried to hold his mouth shut, he tore himself free—he was stronger than her—and barked some more.

  The dragon above roared.

  The canopy crashed open. Claws glinted. A red dragon swooped down into the forest, fire trailing from his maw. His tail lashed, tearing down trees, and his wings raised fallen leaves into a flurry.

  Erry turned and ran.

  She leaped over roots, bushes, and rocks. She didn't turn to look back. A root snagged her foot, and she crashed down into fallen leaves, filling her mouth with mud and moss. She leaped up. She kept running.

  "Erry, damn it!" Leresy shouted behind her. "Stop and listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "You already did, you dung-sucking gutter stain!" she shouted over her shoulder.

  She could not see him, but he was near, and she cursed herself for yelling and revealing her location. She kept racing. Scraggles ran at her side. A rock twisted under her foot, and she fell again. She pushed herself up, but before she could keep running, something grabbed her tunic.

  She spun around, swinging her fists, and struck Leresy hard on the jaw; he was back in human form. He grunted, his lip bleeding, but kept holding her. She struggled and screamed, but he grabbed her arms. She tried to kick, but her feet found only dry leaves, showering them onto Leresy.