Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Between these elite guards flew the emperor and his contingent. Frey Cadigus led the formation, a burly golden dragon, the largest among them. The emperor wore no royal raiment like the old kings of Aeternum, only the armor of a soldier; a steel helm topped his head, engraved with the red spiral, and a great breastplate—large as a boat—covered his belly where no scales grew. And yet none would mistake him for a mere soldier, for his horns were gilded, his eyes commanding, and his bearing noble. Every flap of his wings, creak of his scales, and snort of his flames spoke of his dominion.

  At his right side flew his heir, the Princess Shari. Her scales were blue, her armor black, and she roared and blew flames.

  The Blue Bitch, they call her, Leresy thought and snarled. An apt title.

  He clenched his sword’s hilt, hungering to spill his sister’s blood. Shari would learn, he swore. After his wedding this night, she would learn that he, Leresy, was the strongest sibling, that he—the only son—would inherit the throne. When he was done with Shari, she would envy the miserable outcast Kaelyn.

  He looked at the dragon who flew at his father’s left side.

  Here is my power.

  Leresy’s scowl twisted into a grin. Lord Herin Blackrose, lord of the Axehand Order, flew as proudly as an emperor. The old dragon had no scales, the result of some disease no priest or healer could name. The dragon’s flesh rippled, naked and raw, covered in boils instead of scales, a pale yellow that reminded Leresy of pus. Lord Herin was a foul, twisted freak, a beast that belonged in a menagerie, not in command. But he was strong. Leresy would swallow his disgust for a taste of Herin’s might.

  “He will be my father-in-law tonight, Shari,” Leresy whispered as he watched the dragons fly. “Are you afraid yet? You should be, Blue Bitch. You should be.”

  Wings flapped behind him. An iron dragon landed upon the wall at his side, smoke pluming between her teeth. The dragon shifted, then stood as a woman with short yellow hair, mocking green eyes, and black armor engraved with a rose.

  “The guests arrive,” Nairi said, placed her hands upon a merlon, and nodded. “Soon I will be a princess.”

  “And I the heir,” he said. “With your father’s help, Shari won’t last long.” He placed his arm around Nairi, pulled her toward him, and kissed her cheek. “You will be my queen someday, Nairi. Today we rule Castra Luna—tomorrow, the empire.”

  Leresy looked around him, giving his fortress a last inspection. He had made sure to whip this outpost into proper shape for his father. His recruits, all three thousand of them, stood upon the walls or in the courtyard. Leresy had dressed them in black, steel breastplates bearing the red spiral; he would not have them wearing sweaty leather for the emperor’s visit. Each soldier stood stiff and still in perfect discipline; beneath their armor, their bodies bore the scars of punishers.

  “You will make me proud today,” Leresy hissed, inspecting their lines.

  His eyes fell upon Tilla Roper and his pulse quickened. The young woman stood upon the eastern wall, a good head taller than the troops at her sides. Her face was pale, nearly pure white, but strong; her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, her eyes dark and proud. Leresy remembered reaching between her legs to correct her stance, and he sucked in air and hissed. He craved to reach there again, to touch her, own her, break her, to beat that pride out of her eyes. Tilla stood here a tall, proud soldier; Leresy ached to drag her into his bed, to make her scream, to shatter this shell of her strength and make her weep, to claim her.

  Don’t think you are safe, he thought, staring at her. Don’t think because I’m marrying Nairi that you won’t be mine. I will break you, Tilla Roper. You think you are my soldier, but I will make you my whore.

  The imperial dragons roared their cry, and Leresy turned back toward them. Five hundred beasts of the Axehand Order howled together, announcing the emperor’s arrival. It was the first day of spring, but the trees were still bare; they bent and creaked under the wind of a thousand wings. Blasts of fire rose to paint the sky red. The castle walls themselves shook. Only Frey Cadigus did not roar or blow fire; the great golden dragon merely flew with narrowed eyes, fangs bared.

  “Welcome, you old bastard,” Leresy said softly.

  The old scars across his body flared, and Leresy clenched his fist around his sword, narrowed his eyes, and ground his teeth. Frey had given him those scars, beating him throughout his childhood. Leresy knew every scar across him: those dealt by the rod, the whip, and the blade.

  I will not have suffered for nothing, he thought. Your cruelty made me strong, Father. I did not flee in weakness like Kaelyn. Your empire will be mine.

  He grabbed his banner, which stood in a ring upon the wall, and lifted it high. The banner unfurled, revealing the red spiral, sigil of his house.

  “Welcome to Castra Luna!” he shouted to the approaching force. “I am Leresy Cadigus, Prince of Requiem! Welcome to my domain!”

  The dragons approached, Frey at their lead, a great host of shimmering scales and fire. Leresy raised his banner as high as he could.

  “Welcome, Father!” he shouted. “Welcome to Castra Luna!”

  The emperor flew with narrowed eyes toward the wall… then overshot Leresy, not sparing him a glance. The rest of the procession did the same, the flapping of their wings nearly tearing the banner from Leresy’s hands. His hair and cloak billowed madly. The dragons didn’t even seem to see him, only flew above him, then began to descend toward the fortress courtyard.

  Only Shari even spared him a glance, but her eyes were mocking, and she smirked and blasted smoke his way. Then she, too, overshot him and landed in the courtyard below.

  Leresy spun around, fuming, to stare down at the courtyard. The five hundred dragons were landing and shifting into human forms. The axehands formed ranks, silent figures robed in black like ghosts. Their hoods and masks hid their faces. The sunlight gleamed on the axeheads strapped to the stubs of their left arms.

  Between them, Frey Cadigus and Shari shifted into human forms too. They wore black steel, the plates filigreed with gold, and their cloaks were woven of rich crimson fabric. At once, they two began marching toward the fortress’s main hall, not even turning back to glance at Leresy.

  “Father!” Leresy cried from the wall.

  Frey ignored him. The emperor snapped his fingers, and the gatekeepers—burly men in chainmail—pulled open the hall doors. Crimson capes billowing, Frey and Shari entered the hall and vanished into its shadows.

  Leresy snarled.

  Still a bastard.

  He grabbed Nairi’s arm.

  “Come on,” he said and began pulling Nairi down the stairs into the courtyard.

  He entered the main hall of Castra Luna. The hall was wide, but its vaulted ceiling was low, and columns rose every few feet. This place, like every chamber in Castra Luna, was built with no space for dragons. Should the Resistance ever reach this hall, they’d have to fight here in human forms.

  Frey Cadigus was already sitting at the high table, occupying Leresy’s seat. Shari sat to his right, Lord Hiran Blackrose to his left. Several recruits, whom Leresy had stationed to guard the hall, were pouring wine as if they were servants.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” Leresy called out, marching toward his father. “Would you care for a seat? Perhaps some wine?”

  Frey Cadigus finally acknowledged his son. He stared at Leresy, eyes narrowed and cold. The lines on his face deepened. He held his cup near his lips, but did not yet drink.

  “Spare me your failed attempts at wit,” the emperor said; his every word sounded like he was spitting. “And for pity’s sake, what’s that bauble on your head?”

  Leresy touched the golden ringlet he wore in his hair. He had paid a small fortune for it; its golden wires twisted to form dragons aflight, their eyes made of diamonds, their scales rubies and sapphires.

  “A symbol of my lordship,” Leresy said, chin held high.

  Frey grunted, rose to his feet, and mar
ched forward. He grabbed the ringlet off Leresy’s head, glowered, then snapped the priceless work of art in half. He tossed the pieces aside, and jewels spilled across the floor.

  “I’ve seen finer trinkets on whores,” Frey said, staring at Leresy. It was his old, withering stare, eyes hard and sharp as daggers. “You lead soldiers. Start behaving like one yourself.”

  Leresy squared his jaw. “I will—”

  But Frey turned away, ignoring him. The emperor looked at Nairi, who stood at Leresy’s side, and his eyes softened.

  “Nairi Blackmore!” Frey reached out his arms. “Come to me, darling, and give an old man a kiss. You are looking more beautiful than ever. The south agrees with you, which is more than I can say for my son.”

  “My Commander,” Nairi said, embraced the emperor, and kissed his cheek. “I am so pleased to see you, my lord. Welcome to our home.”

  Frey clasped her pauldron. “Ah! You wear good steel and speak well. Learn from her, Leresy! She is a real soldier; she cares for steel and fire, not tiaras. Come, Nairi! Sit with me at my table. Tell me all about these new troops you’ve been training for me.”

  With a wink at Leresy, she followed the emperor to the table, sat beside him, and began to share the bread and wine.

  Leresy stood fuming. His fists trembled at his sides.

  He’s trying to enrage me, he thought, jaw clenched. He wants me to scream. He wants me to embarrass myself before his men. I will not give him that satisfaction.

  He spoke loudly, letting his voice fill the hall.

  “These recruits I’ve trained—yes, Father, I trained them—will receive their rank as the sun hits its zenith. Eat your bread and drink your wine! Soon the clock strikes noon, and you will see my gift to you. Three thousand soldiers will receive their rank, a new host for the Legions. They will watch me wed this night!”

  Frey was chewing his bread and still speaking with Nairi. He looked back at his son and snorted.

  “You trained them? Did you march with them in the mud, or blow your fire with theirs, or teach them the values of our empire—strength, honor, and eternal glory?” The emperor snorted again. “Or were you busy staring into a mirror, admiring your fine jewels, as Nairi broke in the troops? Yes, Leresy, I will most gladly watch three thousand recruits receive their rank. And I will gladly watch the woman who trained them—Nairi Blackrose—wed into our family. Now leave us! Go and cut your hair; it’s longer than a woman’s. Return to me looking like a soldier yourself before you present me with three thousand of them.”

  With that, Frey returned to his meal and conversation with Nairi.

  As Leresy fumed, almost shaking with rage, he saw his sister looking at him from the table. Shari Cadigus, heir to the empire, was stabbing grapes with her dagger and eating them. She wore no helm; her curly dark hair cascaded across her armored shoulders. She swallowed a grape, winked at Leresy, and gave him a crooked smile. Then she slammed her dagger down, piercing another grape, and her grin widened—a wolf’s grin.

  Soon, Leresy, her eyes said. Soon this dagger will thrust into your back.

  Leresy spun, fists clenched, and marched out of the hall. In the courtyard, he shifted into a dragon and took flight. He soared toward his tower, flames spilling from his maw.

  You will die, Shari, he swore and blasted flame at the sky. You will die, Father. Do not think you are safe. You mock me now, but you don’t know my strength. I will crush you both in my jaws, and Requiem will be mine.

  He landed upon his tower, shifted into human form, and entered his chamber. He walked to his mirror and drew his dagger. With clenched teeth, he began shearing his hair, tearing nearly as much as he cut.

  “I will play your game for now, Father,” he said. “But when I’m done, this dagger will enter your heart.”

  His beautiful, golden hair fell around his boots, and his eyes stung.

  24

  TILLA

  She stood in the courtyard, clad in steel, on the most frightening day of her life.

  Today I will watch the prince wed, she thought. Today I will receive my rank. Today I will become a soldier, ready for war.

  The tower rose above her, a shard of obsidian scratching the sky. Its great black-and-red clock chimed noon, and Tilla sucked in her breath, raised her chin, and struggled to calm her thrashing heart.

  Her fellow recruits stood across the walls and courtyards, three thousand in all. Many were from Cadport, youths she had grown up with; the rest were from towns and villages across the south. They stood in their phalanxes, a hundred each. Tilla clutched the standard of her own phalanx, a black rose within an iron ring.

  Nairi Blackrose herself, her commander and soon her princess, stood before her. She wore her finest armor this day, polished black plates engraved with roses. Her insignia—the single red spiral of a lanse—shone upon her shoulders.

  Tilla herself wore metal for the first time. The prince had equipped all his recruits with real steel for this day. The armorer had forged Tilla’s breastplate only days ago. It fit snugly, polished black and engraved with a red spiral upon the chest. Soon she would receive armbands, and each one would display a single red star.

  I will be a periva, she thought. A low rank, yes. But I will be a true warrior of the Legions, no longer merely a recruit.

  Her fingers tingled to think of it. After all this time—three moons of pain and dirt and sweat and blood—she would become a true soldier.

  I made it, she thought. I survived Castra Luna.

  Wings thudded, and Tilla looked up to see the emperor, the princess, and the prince—three dragons in armor—descend into the courtyard. Once they landed, they shifted into human forms.

  Frey Cadigus stood in the center, the tallest among them. His dark, thinning hair was slicked back. His eyes, shards of stone, stared upon the troops that stood before him. His thin lips twisted, deepening the grooves around his mouth. His face was almost cadaverous, Tilla thought, but his armor shone, and his shoulders were wide and strong.

  Frey raised his fist.

  “Hail the red spiral!” he shouted, then pounded that fist against his breastplate.

  Across the courtyard, the soldiers repeated the cry.

  “Hail the red spiral!”

  Fists rose, then pounded against chests. Tilla sucked in her breath, and her body tingled.

  This is power, she thought. Thousands of warriors shouting together, united under one banner—this was glory.

  She was no longer afraid, she realized. It was the first time in moons, maybe in years, that she felt no fear. She had come to Castra Luna a timid, terrified girl. Now she stood as a warrior, clad in steel, a sword at her side, shouting for the glory of her kingdom.

  “Today you become soldiers!” Frey Cadigus cried to them. “You have trained for long moons. You have grown strong. You learned to fight with swords, to fly as dragons, to kill our enemies. But more importantly, you learned our moral code.” He clenched his fist. “You learned of strength. You learned of honor. You learned that pity, compassion, and cowardice lead to decline and death. Requiem is strong! Requiem is a great blade and a pillar of flame. Requiem will never more fall. Hail the red spiral!”

  “Hail the red spiral!” Tilla shouted with the others, fist raised.

  The cry echoed across the fortress, across the forest, across the empire itself. Tilla held her head high, allowing the power to flow through her.

  “Speak your vows,” Frey called out, “and join the might of Requiem.”

  Across the courtyard, the ranks of troops held fists to chests and chanted together. Tilla spoke with a loud, clear voice.

  “I hail the red spiral. I hail Emperor Cadigus. I vow to fight for Requiem. I will crush her enemies. With fire and steel, I will slay all who threaten her. I am strong. I am proud. I will allow no weakness, fear, or mercy in my heart. I am the fist, blade, and flame of Requiem. The fatherland will never fall! Hail Requiem—today I am her champion.”

  As Tilla chanted her vows with
thousands of others, she felt that strength rise through her. She had always been so afraid, so weak; for the first time in her life, she felt pride.

  Is this not better than fear? she thought. Is this not better than the woman I was—crushed under the emperor’s boot, timid, alone? I was so afraid then, but now I am strong.

  The lanses, commanders of the phalanxes, marched forward. They carried boxes full of black leather armbands.

  Nairi stood before her phalanx, hands on her hips, and nodded.

  “Today I am proud of you,” she said. “I broke your bodies. I broke your souls. I molded you into warriors. Today you are soldiers of Requiem.”

  Tilla stared at the box. Each armband gleamed with a single red star; it was the lowest rank in the Legions, but by the stars, it meant she was a real legionary now. She felt her eyes dampen. All her life, she had lived in hunger, poverty, and fear. Now she had achieved something—a bit of honor. She would wear her insignia proudly and know: I survived and I have a purpose.

  Nairi began to call out names. Across the courtyard, other lanses were doing the same.

  “Erry Docker!” Nairi shouted, and the slim urchin stepped forward.

  “Yes, Commander!” Erry said, the shortest among them but today standing tall.

  “I promote you to Periva Erry Docker,” Nairi said, reached into the box, and produced two armbands. She buckled them around Erry’s thin arms; they gleamed with the new rank. “Hail the red spiral!”

  Erry saluted. “Hail the red spiral!”

  The young orphan, now a warrior, returned to her formation. Her face beamed.

  “Mae Baker!” Nairi cried next, and soon Mae too wore insignia upon her arms.

  When it was Tilla’s turn to walk forth, her knees shook, and she clenched her fists to hide her trembling fingers.

  “Yes, Commander,” she said, standing before Nairi.

  Nairi stared at her, eyes narrowed and shrewd. The lanse paused.