With a thin smile, her blade red, Kaelyn walked around the bend to see the third man there.
She charged toward him, their blades clanged, and Kaelyn swung Lemuria low. She swept the man’s legs out from under him. He fell to his knees. With a shout, she drove her blade between the bars of his visor. Blood seeped out. The man gurgled, then fell silent.
Kaelyn stood panting. Her head spun and every breath sawed at her lungs.
Languid clapping sounded ahead. Kaelyn looked up.
At the cave’s entrance, her sister stood in human form.
“Shari Cadigus,” Kaelyn whispered. “Princess of the empire. The Blue Bitch.” Her lips twisted. “My sister.”
It had been years since Kaelyn had seen Shari, but the woman hadn’t changed. Shari was twenty-eight years old, a full decade older than Kaelyn, and the two sisters looked nothing alike. While Kaelyn was short and slim, Shari was tall and muscular. While Kaelyn had golden hair and hazel eyes, Shari sported a mane of brown curls and dark, blazing eyes. While Kaelyn wore gray leggings and a green tunic, the garb of a woodswoman, Shari wore black armor, a crimson cape, and steel-tipped boots.
A rebel and a soldier, Kaelyn thought. Sisters. Enemies to the death.
Shari laughed, hands on her hips. “The Blue Bitch! So they still call me that, do they? A reference to my dragon scales, I imagine.” She tapped her cheek. “You know, a man once called me that to my face. His skin still hangs somewhere in my closet.”
Kaelyn raised her bloodied sword. “Shari, if you take a step closer, I will stick this in your neck.”
A crooked smile twisted the older woman’s lips. She raised an eyebrow and nodded. “So we will play. Like we did as children. I will enjoy that.”
With a long, luxurious hiss, Shari drew her longsword. The blade was black and wisps of flame danced around it. The pommel was shaped as a dragonclaw, the crossguard like wings. Shari’s leather glove creaked as she twisted her fingers around the hilt.
Kaelyn snarled and fear flooded her. She remembered the “games” Shari had enjoyed playing when they were young. Kaelyn still bore the scars across her body—the scars of Shari’s blades, heated irons, and pincers, the toys of a sadistic youth who delighted in shedding her little sister’s blood.
But tonight I will be the one spilling her blood, Kaelyn swore. She snarled and raised Lemuria before her. Her blade was smaller, her arms were shorter, and she wore no armor, but Kaelyn swore this to her stars. Tonight I kill her.
Screaming, she ran down the cave toward Shari.
Her sister smirked, swung her sword, and the two blades crashed.
“Yes, scream for me!” Shari said and laughed. She pulled her blade back and thrust, and Kaelyn barely parried. “You always did scream as a child when I cut you. You sounded like a sow in heat; it was the best part.”
Kaelyn clenched her jaw and swung. Shari parried lazily, still smirking, her eyes mocking. Kaelyn tightened her lips.
Ignore her, she told herself. Ignore her taunts. Focus! Be one with the blade. Kill her.
She thrust her sword. Shari checked the blow.
“My my, you’ve grown feisty, little one.” Shari barked a laugh. “Do you remember that time I caught you trying to eat dinner before me? Do you remember how you screamed when I drove my fork down into your hand? So many tears you shed!”
Kaelyn snarled. “My hand still bears that scar. That hand now holds the blade that will kill you.”
With a grunt, she thrust Lemuria. Shari parried with a yawn.
“So far, not much luck there, beloved sister.” Shari smirked. “Are you growing tired already, little one? You look a little winded.”
Kaelyn swung her blade yet again, but Shari’s defenses seemed impenetrable. Damn it. Kaelyn was a competent swordswoman, but Shari’s skill with the blade dwarfed her own. Screaming now, Kaelyn swung again and again. The swords clanged, crashed against the cave walls, raised sparks, and kept flying. Shari wasn’t even attacking, just checking every blow.
She’s toying with me, Kaelyn realized.
Fear flooded her. Shari blocked the exit from the cave; fleeing was not an option here, yet how could she kill her sister? Shari hadn’t even broken out in a sweat, and Kaelyn was so tired; her clothes clung to her, her throat burned, and she panted.
“My sweet little Kae,” Shari said, and mock concern filled her eyes. “You look ready to collapse. Don’t you realize, little sister? Did you never know? Of course your silly little… what do you call it? The Resistance? Of course this little adventure of yours was doomed to fail.” She blocked another thrust and pouted. “Poor Kaelyn. Father will continue to reign. And I will follow him. And you, sweet sister, will wish that I’d killed you tonight. You will weep and beg for death many years from now, as you still hang in my dungeon, as my whips break your skin again and again.”
Finally Shari attacked.
Her face changed, all the mockery vanishing, and rage flooded her eyes. With a snarl, she thrust her blade.
Kaelyn screamed as she parried. The blow was a terrible thing, a bolt of lightning, a striking asp. Kaelyn barely deflected it. The two blades crashed together, one long and black, the other slim and silvery.
Shari thrust again, and Kaelyn grunted and raised her sword. Her blade clashed against Shari’s, but could not stop its onslaught. Kaelyn ducked and Shari’s sword nicked her ear. Pain blazed and Shari laughed.
“Yes, bleed for me, harlot!” She swung her sword downward. “Bleed a little before I drag you home and make you beg.”
Kaelyn leaped sideways and hit the cave wall. Shari’s blade bit Kaelyn’s hip, tearing her legging and drawing blood.
The memories pounded through Kaelyn: memories of a frightened, weeping child in a dark palace, memories of an older sister tying her, cutting her, and laughing as she wept. Tears stung her eyes.
No. Never again. You will never more torment me, Shari. You will never hurt me or anyone else.
The scar on her hand blazed, and Kaelyn screamed and drove Lemuria down in an arc.
Shari raised her sword. Kaelyn’s blade slid down Shari’s, raining sparks, and slammed into the older woman’s pauldron.
Lemuria was perhaps slim and short, but it was northern steel forged in dragonfire, the blade of a princess. It cracked open Shari’s armor and blood sprayed.
Shari screamed and fell back a step. Her eyes widened and she clutched her wound. Shock filled her eyes; she had obviously never imagined that Kaelyn could hurt her.
Kaelyn stood panting before her. She raised her blade, nodded, and smiled.
“Let us keep dancing,” she said. “Or have you had enough?”
Now the duel truly began.
Now Shari fought with a snarl, all amusement gone from her brown eyes.
Now blades flew like striking lightning, and they danced, and the ringing of steel filled the cave, and Kaelyn snarled and drove her sword forward again and again, all the pain of childhood and war and wounds pulsing through her. In her rage, she struck down her sister’s sword, screamed hoarsely, and slammed Lemuria so hard into Shari’s breastplate the steel crumpled like tin.
Shari gasped. She stood frozen and her sword clattered to the ground. Her eyes widened and her mouth worked silently, but no breath found her.
Eyes narrowed, Kaelyn swung her blade, prepared to finish the job.
Still gasping, her breastplate caved in, Shari leaped back, and Kaelyn’s blade sliced the air. Before Kaelyn could attack again, her sister turned, stumbled outside the cave, and shifted back into a blue dragon. She fled into the night.
For an instant, Kaelyn could not move. She wanted to chase. She wanted to run outside the cave, shift into a dragon too, and blow fire at her retreating sister. Yet for that instant, such pain and weariness filled her that Kaelyn could only stand panting. Her blade felt so heavy; she could barely hold it, and blood dripped down her thigh and cheek.
Be strong now. Pain can wait.
Kaelyn snarled, sucked in her bre
ath, and raced outside the cave.
Shari was already distant, a squealing dragon coiling under the moon. Kaelyn did not know if she could even muster her magic now; she was too weak, too hurt. She ran, leaped into the air, and summoned the old magic with every last bit of will.
Pain exploded. Her magic coiled inside and she clung to it, refusing to release it. Scales flowed across her, and her wings beat, and Kaelyn flew into the night, a slim green dragon.
She could just make out Shari ahead under the stars; the blue dragon was flying north, no doubt to fetch reinforcement. When Kaelyn glanced over her shoulder, she saw the distant sea, the cliffs of Ralora, and the twinkling lights of Cadport, the city where the boy hid.
Stars damn it.
Kaelyn looked north and south, wings beating, breath rattling in her lungs.
Damn it, what do I do? Do I chase my sister? Do I slay the fabled Shari Cadigus, the cruel commander who killed so many of my men, who tortured me so many times? Or do I fly south to save the boy before the might of the Regime falls upon his city?
Kaelyn roared fire in frustration.
After all these years, she lusted to finally slay her sister. But her own vengeance would have to wait.
“Saving the boy is what matters now,” she said into the darkness. “If the Regime approaches the city at night, or if they’re already there… they will take him. And all hope will fall.” Kaelyn snarled at the north where she could still see her sister fleeing. “This is not over, Shari. I will face you again. And next time, my blade will pierce your heart.”
Kaelyn spun in the sky.
She flew south.
She flew to that distant port city. To the boy. To Rune Brewer and to hope.
2
RUNE
It was the last night Rune Brewer would see his best friend. He walked beside her along the beach, not sure how to say goodbye.
The moon glowed full overhead, haloed with winter mist. The light shone upon the sea, drawing a path into the black horizon. The waves whispered, their foam limned with moonlight. With every wave, strings of light glimmered, formed new shapes, and faded upon the sand.
“Do you know why I like the sea?” Tilla said softly, watching the waves.
Rune looked at her. The moonlight fell upon her pale face, illuminating high cheekbones, large dark eyes, and lips that rarely smiled. Her hair blew in the breeze, black and smooth and cut the length of her chin. She wore a white tunic, a silvery cloak, and a string of seashells around her neck. She was tall and thin—too thin, Rune thought. They were all too thin here.
“Because it’s always different,” Rune answered.
She turned to look at him. “Yes. Have I told you before?”
He smiled thinly. “Only a hundred times.”
“Oh.” She turned back toward the water. “Tonight the moonlight glows on the foam. Last night the sea was very dark; I couldn’t even see it. Sometimes in the mornings there are many seashells, and the waves are shallow and warm and golden in the dawn. Sometimes the water is deep and the sand clear, and the waves near me are gray, and those far away are green. Sometimes there are crabs on the sand and fish in the water; other times life is hidden. Tomorrow there will be a new sea here.”
Rune heard what she did not add. But I will not see it. I will be far away. He wanted to tell her that he would walk here tomorrow, that he would write to her about the water, that someday she might return and see the waves again. But the words would not come to his lips. Somehow speaking about tomorrow felt wrong, felt too sad, too dangerous.
So they only kept walking. Silent. The waves whispered. The remnants of old battles littered the beach: the rotted hull of a ship, wooden planks rising like whale ribs; a cracked cannon where crabs hid; an anchor overgrown with moss; and the shattered sabers of fallen sailors. Old wars. Old memories. Nothing but rot and rust in the sand.
Finally they saw the cliffs ahead, rising black in the night. As children, Rune and Tilla would often play under these cliffs, imagining the old battles fought here. They said that seven hundred years ago Elethor, the legendary king, had fought the tyrant Solina upon these cliffs. They said that the dead still whispered here, their bodies buried under the waves.
Rune and Tilla kept walking. Finally the cliffs loomed to their left. To their right, the waves whispered and raced across the sand. Here they stopped, turned toward the water, and stood still. A cold wind blew from the sea—it was the first moon of winter—and Rune hugged himself.
He smiled. “Tilla, do you remember how we used to play here as children? I always pretended to be King Elethor, and you were the wicked Queen Solina. Remember how we would fight with wooden swords?”
A thin smile touched her lips, but there was no joy to it. “Of course you always made me play the villain.”
He raised his hands in indignation. “You wanted me to play the queen?”
Her smile widened and finally some warmth filled it. “Yes. I did. I think you would have looked nice in a dress.”
He gave her a playful push. She fell back a step and sighed.
They sat in the sand. Rune opened his pack and pulled out a skin of ale—he had brewed it himself—and a wheel of cheese. Tilla’s eyes widened to see it.
“Rune,” she whispered. “Where did you get that?”
He shrugged and winked. “I have my ways.”
Cheese was a luxury these days. Years ago, when Rune had been a child, he remembered eating cheese every day. But since the war had begun and trade died, cheese was rare as gold.
But this night was rare.
This was Tilla’s last night home.
They shared the cheese silently, sitting side by side, watching the waves. They drank the ale. They had eaten here many times, the cliffs to their backs, the waves ahead. They could always talk here for hours, laugh, tell stories, play with the sand, and whisper of all their dreams.
Tonight they ate silently.
When their meal was done, they sat watching the water. Rune wanted to say so many things. He wanted to tell Tilla to be careful. He wanted to tell her that he’d see her again someday. He wanted to say goodbye. But his throat still felt so damn tight, and his lips so frozen, and his chest felt wrong, as if his ribs were suddenly too small.
Just say something, he told himself, staring at the waves. Just… just make this a good memory for her, tell her stories, or laugh with her, or… stars, don’t just be silent!
He turned toward her, prepared to tell some old joke to break their silence, when he saw a tear on her cheek.
She was not weeping. Her lips did not tremble. Her eyes did not flinch. She only sat there, staring ahead, still and silent like a statue. Only a single tear glimmered on her cheek, not even flowing, just frozen there like part of the sculpture.
“Tilla,” he said softly. “It… will be all right. It—”
She turned toward him, her face like marble in the moonlight.
“No, Rune,” she said. “None of this is all right. None of this has been all right for years.” She looked aside and her fists clenched in her lap. “This stupid, stupid war, and this stupid red spiral, and…” She looked back at him, reached out, and grasped his arm. “It wasn’t always like this, Rune. I know. My father told me. Before the Cadigus family took over, there was trade here. Ships sailed this sea—tall ships from distant lands, ships with huge sails like dragon wings, and they brought cheese to Cadport, and fruits, and silks, and jewels, and my father had work then. He sold so many ropes to those ships. He showed me paintings of them, secret ones he keeps in the cellar. Stars, Rune! Those ships had so many ropes on them. It wasn’t like today when we sell only a few ropes a year to farmers. And your father too, Rune—so many merchants visited his tavern, and they all wanted to taste his brew, and he was wealthy then. Both our families were wealthy; all of Cadport was. Only it wasn’t even called Cadport then. It was called Lynport, and—”
“Tilla!” he said. He placed a finger against her lips. “You know we can’t
say that word. We—”
She pulled his finger away. Her eyes flashed. “And why not? Why can’t we speak the old name of our town? Why can’t we look at paintings of ships, but have to hide them? Why can’t we ever say, Rune, that things were better then, that maybe the Cadigus family didn’t help us, that—”
Rune leaped to his feet. “Tilla! Please.”
His heart pounded. Memories flashed through him. Somebody else in Cadport—and stars damn it, it was called Cadport now, like it or not—had once spoken like that. The fool had drunk a few too many ales at the Old Wheel Tavern, which Rune owned with his father. After his tenth drink, the red-faced loomer had begun to blabber about the old days, the one thing you were never to speak of.
“Back then, now, I could sell fabrics all over the world,” he had bragged, teetering as he waved about his mug of ale. “Ships came, picked ‘em up, and I got paid silver. That’s called trade, it is. And no bloody fortress rose on the hill.” He guffawed and spat. “No damn soldiers on every street in Lynport. Yeah, you heard me!” He waved his mug around, spraying ale. “Stand back, scoundrels, I won’t be silent! Lynport our town was called then, named after Queen Lyana Aeternum, not after that bloody bastard Cadigus or whatever the Abyss his name is.”
A crowd gathered around him. Wil Brewer, Rune’s father, tried to pull the drunkard back into his seat. Rune himself begged him to be silent. All around, the other townsfolk hissed at the man to sit down.
But the soldiers who drank here did not hiss. They did not beg. They only stared, then rose, then grabbed the drunkard.
Rune never forgot that evening. He never forgot how the drunk loomer had screamed in the city square. He never forgot the cracks as the hammers descended. When his bones were broken, the soldiers slung the loomer’s mangled limbs through the spokes of a wagon wheel. They hung that wheel from the courthouse and guarded it. The screams sounded all night, and all the next day, and it was night again before the loomer finally died.
That had been years ago, but tonight Rune still heard those screams. When he looked at Tilla, he could still hear those bones crack.
Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 30
