Whoever Erry’s parents had been, they had died or left Cadport years ago. Until her enlistment, Erry had lived alone upon the docks, as feral as a stray cat. A dock rat they called her, an urchin with a filthy mouth, skinned knees, and gaunt belly. Cadport’s girls whispered that Erry herself was a prostitute; half the boys bragged that they had bedded her.
Yet I too have always been an outcast, Tilla thought. At least Erry had some fire to her, which was more than Tilla could say about Mae and the others; they all stood here pale and sniffling.
The sorting was complete. From her height, Tilla could see Cadport’s youths fully divided into six phalanxes—three for the boys, three for the girls.
“Move it, maggots!” Nairi shouted.
The lanse marched between them, shoving them aside, and leaped onto her pedestal. She raised her punisher high; it crackled above her head, incurring several whimpers from the girls.
“Listen up, you daughters of whores!” Nairi continued, holding the rod above her, a beacon of light and pain. “Form ranks—groups of threes! Triple up—now!—or I’m going to shove this punisher down your throats.”
Around the courtyard, the other lanses were shouting similar orders and threats.
Tilla began to move. She grabbed Mae, who was still whimpering, and placed her upon a cobblestone.
“Stand still!” she said. “Form the middle line. Erry, you stand behind her—”
“You will form ranks silently,” Nairi shouted, “or I’ll cut your tongues from your mouths!”
Tilla bit down on her words. Lips tight, she pulled Erry to stand behind Mae, then moved to stand before the baker’s daughter. At her sides, the other recruits scurried into their own ranks, forming three lines before Nairi.
The lanse stood, fists on her hips, and scrutinized the lines with narrowed eyes. Her lips curled in disgust.
“Hail the red spiral!” she shouted.
A hundred fists slammed against a hundred chests. Behind her, Tilla heard Mae sniff and Erry snicker.
Flexing her fingers around her punisher, Nairi marched up and down the front line, snarling and cursing. When she passed by Tilla, she paused, thrust her face forward, and glared.
“Roper,” she said, voice dripping disgust. “You open your mouth again when I’m giving orders, and you will taste this punisher.” She shouted. “Do you understand me, worm?”
Tilla raised her chin and swallowed her pride.
It’s just a game, she told herself. Just a game. Nairi is just like me, just a girl, just somebody sucked into this war. We must play this game for now.
“Yes, Nai—”
The lanse drove her punisher forward, shoving its tip against Tilla’s chest.
Pain exploded.
Fire raced across Tilla.
She clenched her jaw, but a scream still fled her lips. Sweat drenched her. The fire! The fire burned her, twisting in her teeth, in her fingers, burning her bones—
Nairi pulled the punisher back, leaving Tilla gasping. Tears filled her eyes, and it took every last bit of strength to stay standing.
“You will call me Lanse Nairi,” the young woman said, “or you will call me Commander. If you ever call me anything else, I will press this punisher against you all night; by morning you will be begging to die. Do you understand me?”
Tilla could barely stay standing. She trembled. Pain throbbed across her chest.
“Yes, Commander!” she managed in a choked voice.
It’s a game. Stars, let this just be a game. I will play by the rules, and I will survive this.
Nairi spat, left her, and kept marching down the lines. Across the courtyard, the other lanses were doing the same, and punishers crackled, and recruits screamed.
When Nairi reached the end of the line, she growled.
Tilla peeked from the corner of her eye.
The formation ended with a single recruit, a redheaded girl whose name Tilla could not remember. While all the others stood in threes, this recruit stood alone.
“You!” barked Nairi. “I said form into threes. Where are your other two?”
“I…” The girl faltered and sniffed. “There aren’t enough others, Lanse Nairi. I… all the others formed into threes, but there are a hundred of us, and…”
Nairi snarled, grabbed the girl’s throat with a gloved hand, and squeezed.
“Then you are useless,” the lanse hissed.
With her other hand, she drew a dagger from her belt and drove it forward.
Tilla started, winced, and looked away. But she was too late. She had seen the blade enter flesh. She had seen the blood.
Behind her, Mae whimpered and even Erry gasped. The red-haired recruit screamed. She thumped to the floor. She wept and begged.
Tilla glanced over again, just long enough to see Nairi thrust the dagger again, this time into the girl’s neck. The lanse smirked, pulled the blade back, and licked the blood from it. Her eyes burned with hunger, and she bared bloody teeth.
No, this is no game, Tilla realized. She trembled and her chest still ached. Only the strongest will survive here. I must survive this place. I must. I will see Cadport and Rune again.
“The rest of you miserable lot!” Nairi shouted. She cleaned her dagger on the dead girl’s cloak before slamming it back into her belt. “Your groups of threes—these are your flight crews. These are your fellow warriors. From now on, you will remain in these same flights! The two worms with you—they will stick to you like boils to a leper throughout your training. Do you understand me, whores?”
“Yes, Commander!” they shouted together.
Nairi smirked. “Welcome! Welcome to my phalanx. You are now worms serving me. You are now miserable slaves. You now live for one purpose: to obey my commands.” Nairi drew her dark longsword and raised it. “This is the Black Rose Phalanx. This is your new family. This is your new temple. This is your new life. You have no more parents, no more siblings, no more home. Your life is now the Black Rose! Your life is to obey me, your commander. Do you understand, worms?”
“Yes, Commander!” they shouted.
As much as her chest hurt, and as cold as her fear pounded, Tilla was glad to at least make some sense of things. Leaving Cadport, they had been nothing but a mass of frightened youths carted like cattle. But now Tilla had a phalanx and a commander. Now Tilla had a flight—a group of three. Now she finally had some grounding.
There are thirty-three flights in a phalanx, she thought, vowing to remember the numbers. And a hundred troops: ninety-nine soldiers and one officer. She swallowed. The Black Rose Phalanx had one hundred soldiers. One too many.
Tilla still had a thousand questions. Did she herself have a rank—the way Nairi was a lanse? Would her flight have a name too, or did just phalanxes get names? Would her flight have a commander, or was she equal to Mae and Erry? The questions kept bubbling inside her, but Tilla dared not ask. She had never had a chance to learn these things. Her brother had served, but he had died in the war. Those soldiers who did return to Cadport never spoke of their service, and Tilla could now understand why.
A lump filled her throat. If I ever see Rune again, we won’t talk about this either. Her eyes stung. We’ll forget all about this nightmare. We’ll walk along the beach, and he’ll kiss me again, and we’ll just walk there forever and look at the waves.
“Now march!” Nairi shouted. She turned and began walking toward an archway in the courtyard’s wall. “Follow me—three lines! Anyone who breaks formation tastes my blade.”
Mae whimpered. Erry rolled her eyes and smirked. But they all followed. A hundred legionaries of the Black Rose Phalanx snaked out of the courtyard, under the archway… and into a nightmare of blood and pain.
12
SHARI
Shari flew upon the wind, blue scales clanking, and blasted fire. Across field and forest, she saw the distant lights of the capital, and she cursed.
On any other evening, flying toward Nova Vita, the great torch of Requiem, would
fill her with pride. Ahead shone the lights of Requiem’s center of power, the mighty city that ruled the world. Ahead shone her birthright, a metropolis of a million souls, the heartbeat of her lineage. Ahead shone might, pride, and strength.
Yet today Shari did not fly home as a heroine wreathed in glory. Today she flew in fear. Today she did not fly leading a battalion of dragons all roaring her name, announcing her return. Today she flew alone in the sky, a single blue dragon in the sunset.
I’ve failed my task, she thought, and fire flickered between her teeth. Today I will face no glory but the wrath of my father.
She streamed over the fields. The walls of Nova Vita rose before her.
These walls snaked for miles around the city, thick limestone bedecked with obsidian tiles and lit with torches. Upon the battlements stood hundreds of cannons, each one as long as a dragon, mounted on gears fast enough to spin, aim, and fire within an instant. At each cannon, three men in armor stood vigil. Between the guns perched dragons clad in armor, their great dragonhelms topped with spikes. Thousands of warriors guarded this city, the jewel of the empire.
During the reign of Aeternum, enemies had attacked and destroyed this place—griffins, phoenixes, and wyverns. But Frey Cadigus swore: Nova Vita would never fall again. All his wrath shone here, a glory of blade and gunpowder and fire.
And tonight, the wrath of this emperor will fall upon me, Shari thought as she flew.
The city sprawled below her, lit with countless lanterns. The streets were arranged like a great wagon wheel, its spokes leading toward the palace of Tarath Imperium, an obsidian edifice whose battlements clawed the sky. Fortresses, amphitheaters, aqueducts—thousands of great structures rose here, monuments to the empire’s might, and Tarath Imperium dwarfed them all. The palace rose before Shari, clawing the sky, its windows burning with fire like the eyes of demons.
I should flee, Shari thought. I should turn around and fly away and—
She scoffed.
And what, live like my sister? Become a forest wildwoman like Kaelyn, fighting my father in a hopeless war?
She shook her head, scattering sparks and smoke. No. Shari was still a proud daughter of Cadigus, still heir to Requiem, the greatest empire the world had ever known. She would face her father. She would take his punishment. And it would make her stronger.
She flew over the great Cadigus Arena, the largest amphitheater in Requiem, and saw prisoners chained as dragons, their maws muzzled shut, forced to fight packs of tigers and wolves. Past the amphitheater, she flew over the Colossus, a gilded statue three hundred feet tall, depicting her father staring with cold eyes, his fist against his breastplate. She flew over the fortress of Castra Academia, its walls and towers bearing the red spiral upon black banners—the great academy that trained the Legions’ officers.
Finally she neared the palace, and fear roiled through her belly like a horde of icy demons.
Four thousand years ago, the stories said, the first king of Requiem—King Aeternum himself—had raised a column here, a pillar of marble and starlight. Requiem became a kingdom that day, and that marble column still stood; ancient magic let no claw, fang, or tail shatter it. King’s Column rose hidden now, a white spine enclosed in black flesh. Frey Cadigus had extended his palace, letting it spread like a growth. Today black walls, towers, spikes, and turrets covered the original marble the Aeternums had raised. Today this was no longer a place of beauty and peace, but an edifice of might—Tarath Imperium, terror of the empire. Dragons in armor perched upon its battlements. Men stood vigil, ready to fire cannons. Torches crackled and the dragons screeched and blew fire.
Black stone. Flame. Death. My home.
The guards upon the walls recognized her blue scales, gilded horns, and dragonhelm that bore the red spiral. They howled in salute. Those in dragon forms blew pillars of fire. Those who stood in human forms, manning the cannons, slammed fists against chests.
“Hail Shari Cadigus!” they chanted. “Hail the red spiral!”
Shari ignored them. The palace, its base wide with walls and barracks, tapered into a great steeple. This tower of obsidian rose a thousand feet tall, crowned with jagged spikes, a black arm clutching the sky in its claws.
Shari flew toward the tower top. Its spikes rose before her, taller than dragons, greater than most homes in this city. Shari flew between them, descended, and landed upon a stone roof. All around her rose the battlements of Tarath Imperium, a crown upon the empire.
The red and black clouds swirled above her, swarming with dragons. Shari shifted into human form. The wind whipped her, billowed her hair and cloak, and stung her cheeks. She snarled and marched across the platform, heading toward a staircase that led into the tower.
Twenty figures stood guarding the staircase, robed in black—men of the Axehand Order. Here were no simple guards; the axehands were elite killers, chosen for their cruelty and strength. Within the shadows of their hoods, they wore iron masks; they were forbidden to ever remove them, not even when they slept. At their waists, they sported the tools of their trade: pincers and blades for torturing their victims. Worst of all, they had no left hands; their arms ended with axeheads strapped to stumps.
They maimed themselves to prove their loyalty, Shari thought and shivered. They lifted those axes, chopped off their own hands, and strapped the blades to the stubs. They are fanatics. They are ruthless. They are the only men I fear.
The Legions fought Requiem’s wars—a vast army hundreds of thousands strong. The Axehand Order was smaller, but far more dangerous. Its men were as much priests as warriors; they worshiped Frey as their god, and they spread fear of their lord across the empire.
Shari feared them too.
Seeing these men, shivers ran down her spine. She did not trust the Axehand Order; they were too fanatical. Soldiers in the Legions were broken, molded, and shaped into mindless warriors; all they knew was to serve. Shari had broken enough recruits herself to know that. But these axehands… they were too strong. Their order had gained too much power. Their commander, Lord Herin Blackrose, had grown too mighty.
Shari snarled as she walked past them, heading down into the tower. Someday, she thought, she might find an enemy not only in the Resistance, but here at her very doorstep.
As she descended dark stairs, heading deep into the tower, she left such thoughts behind her. Today she had greater concerns. Today she might find her greatest challenge not with the Resistance, not with the Axehand Order, but with her father.
She reached the end of the staircase, opened a door, and walked down a hallway lined with braziers. Her boots thumped. Shari snarled and clutched the hilt of her sword, as if that could save her now.
“You little whore, Kaelyn,” she muttered. She drew her sword and swung it as she walked. “You and your boy will taste this blade.”
Guards lined the walls, saluting their princess, fists slamming against breastplates.
“Hail the re—” one guard began.
With a snarl, Shari drove her sword into his neck. Blood flowed down the blade, and Shari growled as she twisted it. The guard gurgled, hanging upon the sword, blood in his mouth.
“This will happen to you, Kaelyn,” Shari hissed. “This will happen to you, Relesar Aeternum.”
She yanked her blade back with a gush of blood. The guard clattered to the floor. The other guards stood still and pale, fists still held to their breasts.
After several more halls and staircases, Shari reached tall iron doors. She paused outside them, for a moment frozen.
Father’s chambers.
Frey Cadigus maintained a throne room in the base of the palace. It was a chamber an army could fill, a paradise of gold, torchlight, and treasures plundered from around the world. That grand hall mostly stood empty. For all his glory and might, Frey Cadigus was at heart a soldier; he entertained guests in his throne room only several times a year.
Today, Shari knew, she would find him behind these doors in a humbler, darker place. These
were the personal chambers of Frey Cadigus, far from his servants, his generals, and his gilt and glory.
Shari took a deep breath, steeled herself, and pushed open the doors.
She entered the wolf’s den.
For a moment she blinked, eyes adjusting. Outside in the corridor, torches and braziers crackled, their light shining off the black tiles. In here, nothing but a few candles lit the darkness.
“Father?” Shari kept her sword drawn and bloody at her side. “Are you here, Father?”
She walked a few feet deeper and saw him.
Frey Cadigus, Emperor of Requiem, Slayer of Aeternum, stood with his back toward her. In statues and paintings, he wore fine black armor filigreed with gold. Here before her, he stood in a tan, bloodstained jerkin. His dark hair was thinning, but his shoulders were still wide and strong. Several meat hooks hung from the ceiling before the emperor. Upon one hung a wild boar, still alive and squirming.
Frey spoke without turning toward her; she could not see his face.
“You come to me, my daughter, with fear in your voice. You come to me alone. I smell fresh blood upon you, not the blood of a corpse.”
Shari gripped her sword and bared her teeth. “I come alone.”
The wild boar kicked and squealed, its cry echoing in the chamber. His back still facing Shari, Frey raised a dagger, grabbed the boar, and sliced its neck. The beast wailed and its blood gushed into a bucket.
“Fresh blood,” Frey said and wiped the blade on his pants. “Ahh! Smell it, Shari. It is a wondrous smell, is it not? Tell me, my daughter. How did it smell when you shed the blood of the Aeternum boy?”
Shari lowered her head, jaw clenched. “Father, I…”
Slowly, bloody dagger in hand, Frey Cadigus turned toward her.
Today he perhaps wore no armor, no fine cloak, and no heraldry like in the paintings. In his bloodstained leather, however, he looked to Shari just as regal and cruel. His strength shone not from any armor or finery, but from the hard lines of his face, from the thinness of his lips, and from the cold, hard stare of his eyes, a stare as sharp and bloodthirsty as his blade.
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