"Damn it, woman," he said and spat out leaves. "Will you just listen to me? Calm down and let's talk. I just—"
Scraggles bit him.
Leresy screamed.
The black mutt clung to his leg, digging his teeth deeper. Leresy kicked, trying to shake Scraggles off, and screamed again. The dog would not release him.
"Good boy!" Erry shouted. "Bite his leg off!"
Cursing, Leresy drew his sword and raised it above the dog.
Fear flooded Erry like a bucket of ice.
She screamed, leaped, and grabbed Leresy's arm, pulling his sword down. The blade sliced her thigh, she fell to her knees, and blood dripped into the leaves.
The fight froze.
Teeth deep in Leresy's leg, Scraggles stared at the blood, released the prince, and mewled. Leresy too stared at Erry's wound. His eyes widened, and he tossed his sword into the leaves like a viper.
"Oh stars," he whispered and knelt beside Erry. "I didn't mean to… Damn it, that dog of yours, he—"
She punched him again.
She punched him so hard his head snapped sideways, and he fell onto his back.
"You drunken, flea-bitten bastard!" she said. She rose to her feet, blood dripping down her thigh, and glared down at the prince. "You gelatinous piece of chamber pot goo. You—"
Lying bleeding in the leaves, he reached up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her down.
She fell atop him, snarled, and tried to bite his face. He held her back; her teeth missed his nose by an inch.
"Erry," he said, "listen to me, damn it. I love you, all right? And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I struck you."
She spat on his face, hitting him square in the forehead.
"Go to the Abyss," she said. "I'm not one of your whores."
"I don't want you to be one," he said, blood and spit and mud mingling on his face. "I don't want a whore. Stars, Erry, I'm too poor to afford one now anyway."
She rolled her eyes. "Your sweet talk is truly winning me over."
Yet she felt her anger ebb as her blood dripped. She rolled off him and lay at his side, staring up at the canopy.
"Erry," he said, voice choked. When she looked over, she was surprised to see his eyes dampen. "Erry, I… I haven't been right since the battle. Everything is just… my mind is all…"
"Tiny?" she suggested. "Slow as a snail? Nonexistent?"
"Muddled," he said. "Too much damn drink, and too many damn memories. Since Nairi died—since everyone died there—I just keep seeing it. The blood. The corpses. The Resistance flying against us. Stars, Erry, there were so many of them, thousands of dragons and soldiers. They knew me. They knew my name. Death to Leresy! they shouted." Tears joined the mess of blood, saliva, and mud on his face. "So I drank too much, and I whored too much, and I hit you. I'm sorry."
She snorted weakly and her eyes stung. "And you think you can tell me you love me now? And I'll forgive you? Did you say that to Nairi or all the girls you bought?"
"Nairi?" he said. "No. I never loved Nairi. I thought I did. She was young, beautiful, and powerful, and… a typical young man, I courted her. But loved her?" He sighed. "I loved her power. But you, Erry, you have no power."
"Again, my prince, your sweet talk is falling somewhat short of my standard."
He propped himself up onto his elbows. "Erry, damn you. You're nothing but a feral little beast. You have no money. You have no noble blood, no influence, no standing at court." He stared down at her chest. "Stars damn it, you've got barely any meat on your bones. But… you joined my camp. You wanted to be with me. And I wanted you."
"To bed me every night and dawn," she said bitterly. "To use my body, and because I'm so poor, I'd let you do it—for food, for shelter, for your promises. And I did that for a while. Because you fed me, and because you protected me." She rose to her elbows too and looked at him. "But then you struck me, so deal's off, Leresy. No more."
"The deal was off a moon ago!" he said, voice rising now. "The deal was off after the first two days." He snorted. "Use you? For sex? Erry, I don't care about that. You know what you gave me? You gave me intolerable arguments over that stupid game you just can't play. And you gave me cuss words I never even knew existed; I use some of them now. And you gave me somebody to hold at night. I never held a woman before; I never held Nairi or the others. But I hold you all night, and I stroke your hair, and I kiss you, and… when I do that, it's better than all the booze and sex. It's not just forgetting the past with you. It's seeing a future."
She was about to snort again. She was about to spit at him, punch him, and run. But she only sighed.
"Stars damn you, Leresy Cadigus," she said.
He held her hand. "Erry, I'm sorry. I'm truly deeply sorry. I… I want to show you something."
He rolled up his sleeve and she gasped. She covered her mouth and her eyes stung.
"Stars, Ler," she whispered.
He sighed and nodded. "My father gave me that scar. He burned me because I couldn't learn a sword thrust fast enough. I was only six years old." He unlaced his shirt, pulled it down, and showed her a scar across his chest. "And he gave me this scar with a hot poker. I was ten and I couldn't remember the name of some ancient fort that no longer exists." He closed his shirt. "I have about a dozen more scars across me, a dozen more stories. Erry, my siblings and I… we were raised in violence, in fear, in hate. My sister Shari turned into a heartless killer; my father broke her mind. My sister Kaelyn fled. And I, well… I'm a damn broken wreck. I drink too much and I hit you, and my past can't justify that, I know. I know it's not an excuse. I don't ask for acceptance, only for forgiveness. Will you forgive me, Erry?" His voice shook and his eyes dampened. "Because I don't want you to leave me. Please. Please don't leave me."
Her own eyes watered and she embraced him, laid her cheek against his chest, and felt her tears wet his shirt.
"I have scars too," she whispered. "You only have a dozen? You weakling. I have more. And I'll probably have another one on my leg from your damn sword."
He held her close, nearly crushing her. "I'll never hurt you again, Erry Docker. I promise. I promise. Just stay with me, and we'll figure things out. We'll find a home somewhere, you and I. You won't have to be my concubine or my mistress. You will just be… whatever you want to be, so long as we're together."
A weight pressed down onto Erry's shoulder; Scraggles had joined the embrace. The three lay in the forest, dry leaves falling around them, and Erry sighed.
"All right, Leresy," she whispered as he stroked her hair, not knowing if she made the right choice, but feeling too weak to run. "All right."
TILLA
On a cold rainy morning in Castra Sol, the Emperor of Requiem arrived with all his contingent and asked to speak with her alone.
Tilla was drilling that morning outside her tent, sparring with her troops and imagining swinging her blade against resistors. The forest bobbed and dripped rain beyond their tents, the wet autumn leaves turned dark as blood.
When we reach Cadport, she thought, thrusting blows against one of her troops, they will flee into houses and holes. It will be a battle of blades then.
The soldier before her, a young flight leader with two red stars upon his armbands, cursed as he parried. Sweat dripped down his temples. Tilla kept attacking, using every thrust she'd learned at the academy. She shuffled forward with small, quick steps, sword swinging down from side to side. It was all her opponent could do to parry. Finally Tilla slammed her sword—a dulled training blade—hard onto his pauldron.
"That's a kill!" she said.
He grunted and tossed down his own training sword.
"Commander," he said, "your sword wouldn't break through this steel. My armor is thick, and—"
"And my true blade was forged in dragonfire from northern steel," Tilla said, interrupting him. "A thrust this hard, with two hands, would cleave your armor and bone; your arm would be lying in the dust."
The young corelis—he ranked above a green periva, but below a hardene
d siragi—cracked his neck.
"The Resistance don't got northern steel forged in dragonfire," he argued. "Bastards fight with rusted, chipped blades."
Tilla fixed him with an icy stare. "Valien Eleison carries the sword of a knight, a blade of the old order of bellators. It would cut through your armor like parchment. Do you not dream of slaying Valien?"
The soldier stared back, then nodded and lifted his blade.
"Next man!" Tilla shouted.
Yet before another soldier could step forward to drill, roars trumpeted in the distance.
Tilla froze, sword raised.
The roars pealed across the sky, thousands of them rising from the north. The beating of wings rose like a storm. A distant voice cried out, hailing the red spiral, and countless voices answered in a chant.
"Keep training!" Tilla said. She turned to her siragi, a brawny soldier with dark eyes, her right-hand man in the phalanx. "Siragi, take command."
The man nodded and Tilla shifted. She rose from the square, white wings raising clouds of dust, her flames crackling.
She soared high above the camp. Lines of tents sprawled before her like a great city; fifty thousand now mustered here, marching and drilling. Beating her wings and rising higher, Tilla raised her head and stared into the north.
She gasped. A shiver clanked her scales like a purse of coins.
"By the Abyss," she whispered.
A great army flew ahead, as large as the army mustered below. Tilla had never seen so many dragons fly together; she could barely breathe. They flew in five great squares across the sky—five brigades, each one ten thousand dragons strong. Within each brigade, the square further divided into ten milanxes, then into ten again, forming phalanxes of a hundred.
"Fifty thousand dragons," Tilla whispered, hovering in the air, watching them fly from the north.
This was not only a force to capture a city.
This was a force to finally slaughter every last resistor.
At the head of this army, a black triangle of dragons flew like an arrowhead, and another shiver ran through Tilla.
"The emperor," she whispered, "and the Axehand Order."
They still flew a league away, but Tilla could make out Frey Cadigus, a great golden dragon, flying at their lead. Around him flew the Axehand Order, his fanatic warrior-priests. They wore black armor bristly with blades, and axeheads shone upon their stumps. They shrieked to the sky, hailing their lord, worshiping him as their god.
"Five hundred axehands fly here," Tilla whispered, "and they frighten me more than the fifty thousand legionaries behind them."
She hovered in place, watching as the northern army swallowed the forest under their shadow, roared their arrival, and descended into the camp. For the past few days, Shari had ordered troops to tear down thousands of trees north of the ruins, carving a great clearing. Now the northern host descended here in a storm of wings, an inferno of flame, and a cacophony of howls and roars and grunts. Dragons shifted into men. Legionaries took formations, tens of thousands forming lines and squares. The Axehand swept between them as ghosts, hidden within black robes and hoods. A great tent rose, its walls bedecked with spirals; the emperor strode into it.
Tilla descended, shifted into human form, and returned to her tent.
She stared into her small mirror.
A pale woman stared back, her dark eyes cold, her smooth black hair cut neatly, falling just above her chin. She knew that many called her face icy, the face of a statue. Her townsfolk had whispered this in Cadport, back when Tilla had lived as a commoner. Today her troops whispered it; she could hear them. They said her face and heart were carved of ice. They said her eyes were stone marbles, devoid of life, pity, or any feeling.
Yet they did not see her nightmares. They did not see her heart. And today… today that heart twisted with fear. That heart was not carved of ice; the ice coursed through her veins and belly.
"When I joined the Legions," she whispered to her reflection, "I vowed to banish all fear from me. Yet today I'm more afraid than ever."
She reached to the small box she kept on her table. Her fingers shook, but she took a deep breath and opened the box.
Her eyes stung.
She pulled out a seashell necklace.
"Damn it," she whispered, eyes dampening.
She caressed the seashells, listening to them chink. It was her one memento of Cadport. It was her one memory of her lowborn roots, of a ropemaker's daughter too poor to eat dinner many nights.
"It's my only memory of Rune," she whispered.
He had collected these seashells, strung them together, and given her this gift on her fourteenth birthday. Five years had passed since then, and Tilla had a sword now, fine armor, and silver in her purse, yet she kept this humble necklace.
It's the most precious thing I own, she thought.
She placed the necklace back into her box and closed her eyes.
"Oh Rune," she whispered. "Why did you do this? Why did you fall to evil? Now the Legions muster… and they will break you."
Her eyes stung. She knew what they'd do to him. Frey Cadigus would shatter Rune's bones, flay his skin, but leave him alive. The emperor would parade his trophy across the capital, letting all hear Rune scream, then finally—after days or moons or even years—he would allow Rune the mercy of death.
"Why, Rune?" Tilla whispered, clutching the box. "Why did you have to betray your kingdom? Why did you let the Resistance turn you against Requiem?" Her fingers shook. "Now I will have to hurt you, Rune. Now I will have to fight you. You could have stopped this. You forced me to do this."
Her tent flap opened behind her.
At the sound, Tilla spun around, clutching her punisher. Her troops were never to barge into her tent; she would burn anyone who did.
Her snarl died on her lips, and she released her punisher. A new gush of fear flooded her.
Two axehands stood at her tent entrance.
Their black robes draped across them, but the sleeves were short enough to reveal their deformity: axe blades strapped to their left stumps, the very blades they themselves had severed their hands with. Their hoods cast deep shadows, but Tilla caught hints of their iron masks; those masks were bolted on to the flesh, impossible to remove. Around their waists, they displayed the tools of their trade: pincers, needles, and blades for torturing their enemies.
They will use these on Rune, Tilla thought. They'd use them on me if they knew I still cared for him.
She slammed her fist against her chest, struggling to hide her trembling.
"Hail the red spiral!" she said.
One of the axehands spoke, his voice a hiss behind his mask, an inhuman sound.
"You are Tilla Siren. You will accompany us. His holiness, the great God of Dragons, will speak with you. Follow."
They reached out their right hands. Their fingers were scarred and wrinkled as if dipped in acid, and Tilla shuddered.
They chopped off their left hands to prove their loyalty, she thought. What did Frey demand they do to their right hands?
She took a deep breath, clutched her sword, and followed them outside.
They shifted into dragons. They flew over the camp; a hundred thousand troops drilled below them. As they dived toward the emperor's tent, Tilla's heart twisted, and smoke spurted from her nostrils.
Stars, he knows, she thought. Somehow Frey knows about the seashell necklace. He knows I grew up with Rune. Her scales clattered. He'll have me tortured and killed.
Yet what could she do? She could not flee; they would catch her. All she could do was fly with the axehands, speak with the emperor… and beg.
They landed outside the emperor's tent. It rose like a mansion before her, black walls thudding in the wind. A hundred axehands surrounded the tent, their black robes swaying like ghosts at midnight.
Tilla shifted back into human form, and an axehand opened the flap to Frey's tent, revealing shadows.
"Enter," the dark priest hissed, beck
oning with his blade.
Tilla raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and sucked in her breath.
Strength, Tilla, she told herself. Always be strong. Show no weakness. Weakness is death.
She stepped into the darkness.
The tent was large and bare. Ten dragons could have stood in here, but Tilla saw only a table, two chairs, and one man.
Frey Cadigus, Emperor of Requiem, stood sharpening a dagger, rubbing stone and blade together. He stood in profile to her, staring at his blade, as if he hadn't noticed her enter. Tilla had never seen him up close before. He was a tall man, and his pauldrons flared out from wide shoulders. His armor was meticulous, the black plates lines with golden dragons, bolted together into a second skin. He wore no helm today. His face was cold and hard, the nose hooked, the brow high. Grooves framed his thin lips.
More than his blade, his armor, or his cruel mouth, his eyes frightened Tilla. When they turned to stare at her, they were cold, hard, and penetrating as swords.
Tilla saluted, slamming fist to chest.
He returned the salute, his eyes digging into her—into her mind, her heart, her oldest secrets.
"Lanse Tilla Siren," the emperor said. "Tilla of Cadport. My daughter speaks of you often." He gestured at the table. "Sit."
When Tilla stepped closer to the table and chairs, she sucked in her breath. She felt the blood leave her face.
What she'd first taken for wine jugs were actually glass jars. Inside each vessel floated a head, its mouth open in a silent scream.
Frey studied her. "Do they frighten you, child?"
Tilla tightened her lips and sat.
"No, Commander," she said and met his gaze.
A frightened child would die today, she thought. A soldier, heart hardened, will live.
Frey still stood. He caressed one of the jars; inside floated the head of a child, her hair long and braided, her eyes still wide with fear.
"The Aeternum Dynasty used to rule in splendor," Frey said. "They governed in halls of marble, harps, and starlight." He snorted. "They were weak. They were soft. They sang music and drank wine in their halls while our enemies mustered. They prayed to the stars as griffins, wyverns, and phoenixes slaughtered our people." He caressed a second jar; the head floating inside looked eerily like Rune. "Look at them now, lanse. Look what their weakness brought them."
A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) Page 14
