A Legacy of Light (The Dragon War, Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  As he flew over the forest toward the castle, Leresy Cadigus, prince of the empire, grinned and breathed his fire.

  The forest streamed below him, pines and oaks bending under the flap of his wings. When Leresy drew closer to the fort, he saw hundreds of soldiers in the courtyard, mere scurrying ants from here. He narrowed his eyes and found himself salivating.

  Yes, he thought. Yes, lots of new recruits here—young, afraid, and female. He licked drool off his maw. So much flesh to claim. So much to taste, to savor, to conquer.

  Some in the capital had wondered, Leresy knew, why he had demanded Castra Luna for his birthday gift. His older sister Shari had scoffed.

  "You could have any fort in Nova Vita!" she had said. "You could command knights, seasoned warriors, and garrisons of legend. And you choose… a training outpost halfway across the empire?"

  She had laughed, and Leresy had only stood before her, silent, a small smile on his lips. So little she understood. So little she knew of what lurked here in Castra Luna, this distant southern pile of stone.

  Here lurked real power, more than Shari could imagine in her small, petty mind, the mind of a warrior.

  "You think like a fighter," Leresy whispered into the wind. "Like a brute. Like the mindless killer that you are. But I want more than the glory of war, dearest sister. When I am done here, I will have such power that you will kneel before me."

  Flames exploded within him. He clenched his jaw and blasted fire skyward. Shari thought herself so mighty, so proud, so powerful. As Leresy circled above the fortress, he roared his rage, a shriek that could tear through human eardrums.

  You might be heir to the empire, Shari, but soon even you will quake before me.

  He now flew directly over Castra Luna, the ancient fortress that had been guarding southern Requiem for seven hundred years. He dived toward the courtyard and flew so low the soldiers below—fresh meat just carted in from the backwaters—had to duck. With a grin and howl, Leresy blasted fire across the courtyard, then soared again. His wings stirred dust below, and he shrieked to the sun.

  He rose high above the courtyard and blew fire. He had seen enough of the soldiers below to whet his appetite. Half were frightened, pale farm boys no older than himself—fools for him to crush under his heel. The rest were ripe females, and Leresy snorted and grinned and felt his pulse quicken.

  I will savor them, he thought. This fort is mine, and they are mine. I own these bricks, and I own this flesh.

  He flew toward the command tower, the tallest among them, a great spire of obsidian. It rose hundreds of feet tall, flaring into a capital like a flanged mace. Its clock ticked upon it, a masterwork of black and red gears that clanged the noon hour as Leresy approached.

  He flew between towering black spikes, each taller than a dragon, and landed upon the tower roof. He snapped his teeth and grinned. Below him spread the fortress, barracks and armories and courtyards, and beyond them the snowy forests rolled into haze. He blasted fire upward, a beacon of his dominion, and shifted into human form.

  Wind whipped him, trying to tear off his cloak. The rooftop spikes towered around him. When he peered off the roof, the height seemed dizzying. For an instant Leresy faltered, and his heart leaped, and he was sure he would fall to the courtyard below. He gritted his teeth, clutched his sword, and trudged across the roof.

  A trapdoor lay below him, carved of bronze. Leresy grabbed the knob, pulled the door open, and found a ladder leading into a chamber. He entered, closed the trapdoor above him, and descended the rungs.

  Once his feet touched the floor, he cursed.

  The room was bare, cold, and utterly distasteful. Disgust washed Leresy, and for a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake flying here. Only one wall held a tapestry, and even that tapestry was plain, black fabric emblazoned with the red spiral—cheap dye. The furniture was bare pine, and no gold or jewels adorned it. The bed's mattress was stuffed with straw, not feathers; Leresy could tell just by looking. The chamber did sport a stained-glass window, but even its design was simple—it showed a dragon atop a red spiral—compared to the majestic stained glass of northern palaces.

  Leresy's lips twisted and he snarled.

  "At least they have a proper mirror," he said and stepped toward it.

  The mirror rose taller than a man, and Leresy admired his reflection. Whenever he felt sour, his reflection could lift his spirits.

  He was remarkably good-looking, he thought. He placed his hands on his hips, raised his chin, and felt his mood improve. His hair was woven of purest gold, short enough to look like a soldier's hair, but long enough to shine. His eyes were blue as sapphires. His cheeks were smooth, his lips full and pouty.

  Some said he looked like his twin, the filthy traitor Kaelyn, but of course, Kaelyn would be wearing rags now and crawling through the mud. Lersey's dress was immaculate. Not a scratch spoiled his armor of black steel and gold. Not a single errant thread marred his fine cloak of crimson wool and fur. An apple-sized ruby clasped that cloak, and ancient stones—each one taken from the grave of a great hero—embossed his scabbard.

  But his greatest treasure, greater even than his jewels and blades, was his punisher. Leresy's lips peeled back. Delicately, he drew the rod from his belt and held it before him. The finest, softest leather wrapped around its grip. Upon its rounded head, red lightning crackled and flared. Leresy's breath quickened and his eyes narrowed. He could already imagine the flesh he would burn with his tool, the screams he would hear, and the trembling females he would break and tame and invade.

  "My birthday gift," he whispered, holding the punisher before him; it throbbed in his hand. "My birthright. My—"

  A creak sounded behind him—the trapdoor being opened.

  Leresy spun to see a burly old man descending the ladder into the chamber.

  The man wore leather armor studded with iron bolts—the crude armor of the outposts. White scruff covered his cheeks, and snow and mud stained the hem of his cloak. A longsword hung at the old man's side, but no jewels adorned it; it could have been taken off a dead mercenary. Leresy's lips curled in disgust.

  "Lord Raelor," he said, letting that disgust suffuse his voice. "Look at your garb. I've seen farmers dressed finer. Look at your beard. I've seen cleaner hair on seaside whores. And you call yourself a lord?"

  The burly old man sucked in his breath. His eyes widened and he knelt.

  "Prince Leresy," he said gruffly, head lowered. "You surprise me with your visit, my lord."

  Leresy snarled, stepped forward, and grabbed the man's collar.

  "And I suppose you don't like surprises, old man," he said with a sneer. "If you knew I was coming, would you have improved your appearance? Would you have shaved your scruff, or washed that fleabag of a cloak, or prepared this room for a prince?" He spat on the floor. "Castra Luna is the oldest standing fort in the empire. Did you think you could allow it to rot, and the capital would sit by idly? Stand up."

  Raelor rose to his feet, his armor and joints creaking. His eyes were small, blue, and cold, the eyes of a hardened warrior, but Leresy saw fear in them too, and that pleased him.

  "My prince Leresy," he said. "Aye, it is a gruff life here in the south, far from the northern comforts of the capital. If you are tired from your flight, however, we have strong wine in our cellars, and—"

  "Do I look tired?" Leresy narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying I look tired, old man?"

  Raelor stiffened. "My apologies, my prince, I merely—"

  "But I will have some wine." Leresy turned away from the man and stomped toward a table; a jug of wine stood there by a pewter mug. "Have you no servants here to pour your drink? Truly, this is a cesspool of a fort. Things will change around here."

  Lips curling, Leresy poured his own wine. It was the first time he'd had to pour his own drink. He sipped, swished the liquid in his mouth, then spat it onto the floor.

  "Pig piss!" he said. He spun back toward Raelor and glared. "Do you drink pig piss her
e in the south, Raelor?"

  The old man's eyes hardened; Leresy could see the hatred and fear locking horns behind those eyes.

  "If the wine is distasteful to you, my prince, we can order other vintages shipped in. We receive shipments every moon, and—"

  "You won't be around for that, Raelor," Leresy said. He pulled the scroll from his belt and tossed it forward. "A letter for you. Read it."

  Raelor stared at Leresy for just an instant longer, just a heartbeat, but in that space of a breath, Leresy saw the man's well of hatred… and he grinned.

  Good, he thought. Good—hate me, old man. It will make this all the sweeter.

  The scroll bore the emperor's official seal, a red spiral surrounding the initials F.C. — Frey Cadigus. When Raelor looked at the seal, he sucked in his breath and blanched.

  Leresy's grin widened. A letter from the emperor is rarely good news, he thought and licked his lips.

  With stiff fingers, Raelor broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and his eyes darted as he read. His skin grew paler, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. He rolled the scroll back up and looked at Leresy.

  "My lord prince," he said. "If I have failed in my duties, allow me to mend them. My family has ruled Castra Luna for generations. We have served the empire loyally. We—"

  "You," said Leresy, "are relieved of command, Lord Raelor. Oh, I'm sorry… but you are not a lord anymore at all, are you?" He tsked his tongue. "That makes you… nothing. Nothing but an intruder in my fortress."

  More sweat rolled down Raelor's face. His fingers began to tremble. "Please, my prince. My family… allow me to…" His lips shook, his throat constricted, and he could speak no more.

  Leresy allowed mock concern to soften his eyes. He stepped toward the larger man and placed his hand on his shoulder.

  "Your family is safe in the capital!" Leresy said. "Do not worry, my good man. The empire remembers your loyal service. And your family will remain safe; we will not harm them. Not if you relieve yourself of duty honorably. The empire allows you this great, final honor."

  Raelor's neck bobbed as he swallowed. He stared at the floor, and his teeth ground, and his forehead glistened. When he looked back up at Leresy, red rimmed his eyes.

  "Why?" he whispered. "Why, my prince? How have I failed?"

  Leresy shrugged. "Because it's my birthday. And this is what I wanted." He gestured at the dagger on Raelor's belt. "Go on then. Do it. Just… not on the rug."

  Raelor raised his chin. "And my family…?"

  "We will make it painless," Leresy said. "Do this now, and they will not suffer. It will be in their sleep." He snorted. "I would have preferred to watch them broken and hear them scream—perhaps the rack or an old-fashioned quartering—but my father is more merciful than I am. Well, go on then! Don't test that mercy."

  Tears dampened Raelor's eyes, but he managed to keep his chin raised. He gave a final salute, slamming his fist against his chest.

  "Hail the red spiral!" he said, stepped back, and drew his dagger. With a gasp and blinking stare, he shoved his blade into his neck.

  Leresy stood above the dying man, watching him writhe and bleed out onto the floor and rug.

  Damn it, he thought. I told him not to stain the rug.

  The blood seeped and ran between the tiles. Leresy sighed. This damn tower—the whole stinking fort—would need to be scrubbed and remodeled before it was fit for a prince.

  A voice spoke behind him.

  "Same old Leresy… still not killing his own enemies."

  Leresy spun around and saw her there.

  He grinned.

  "Nairi," he said.

  A backdoor stood open by the tapestry, revealing a staircase that plunged lower down the tower. Nairi stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. A crooked smile played across her lips.

  Leresy felt his blood heat; stars, he had missed her. Her short blond hair had grown a little longer, just long enough to fall across her brow and ears, but her green eyes still shone with the same old mockery. When she walked toward him, the sway of her well-rounded hips still stirred his loins. She too was dressed crudely—she wore tan leggings, a steel breastplate, and muddy boots. She carried a rough sword across her back—it wasn't even jeweled—and a punisher hung at her waist. Only the black rose engraved upon her breastplate, sigil of her house, denoted her nobility.

  When she reached him, she placed a finger under his chin and closed his mouth.

  "Careful, my prince," she said. "There's blood on the floor, and your tongue nearly rolled that far."

  With a snarl, he reached behind her, cupped a handful of her backside, and squeezed.

  "Why kill my enemies myself?" he said to her. "My blade is far too fine to dirty with the blood of pigs. And you, Nairi, you too are a pig." He sniffed. "You stink of oil and dirt, and you're dressed like a peasant's daughter. Do you forget who you are? Did life here in this outpost turn you into a commoner?"

  Nairi raised an eyebrow and gave him a mocking smile. "It's true. My clothes are dirty and foul; the clothes of a warrior. Why don't you remove them from me? I can see that's what you want." She patted his cheek. "Such a refined prince does not dirty his dagger…" She reached down to his breeches and grabbed him. "…or any of his blades."

  He snarled and shoved her back. He walked toward the table, grabbed the wine, and drank deeply, pig piss or not. After slamming the mug down, he walked toward the bed, sat on the mattress, and stared at Nairi. She stood with one hand in her hair, smirking at him.

  Stars, the woman drips sex, he thought.

  "Well?" he said to her. "Go on. Get those clothes off."

  "Somebody's impatient!" she said. She pouted and began unbuckling her breastplate.

  Leresy leaned back and breathed deeply. Perfection, he thought as he watched her undress. Exquisite perfection. Piece by piece, she tossed aside her garments and armor, and Leresy's smile widened. The young woman was sex in boots, and her father…

  Leresy licked his lips. Her father is the most powerful, feared man outside my family. He couldn't help but snort a laugh. Once Nairi and I are wed, even my brutish sister will fear my might.

  Nairi pouted, naked before him, and crossed her arms across her breasts. "You laugh at my naked body?"

  "No," Leresy said. He stood up, approached her, and grabbed her waist. He dug his fingers into her and snarled. "I claim it. Your body is mine. Today is my birthday, and I take this castle, and I take you."

  He shoved her facedown onto the bed. When she tried to flip onto her back, he pressed her down.

  "Ler—" she began.

  "Lie still. Don't talk." He mounted her. "Scream if you like."

  He reached under her torso, grabbed her, and took her roughly, and she screamed. Stars, he made her scream, and Leresy smiled and drooled above her.

  "You are mine," he hissed into her ear. "Don't you forget that, Nairi. I am your prince, and you belong to me."

  With a grunt, he rolled off her and lay at her side. The mattress creaked beneath him.

  I was right, he thought as he stared at the ceiling. The mattress is stuffed with straw. Raelor, you bloody peasant. I should torture your family after all. I'll start by making them sleep on this mattress.

  He turned to look at Nairi. For once, no mockery shone in her eyes or twisted her lips. She looked almost shy, almost demure. He had hurt her. Good. He had made this feel like the first time, and in his bed, she now felt like a newly deflowered maiden.

  And in this bed I will deflower many more, Leresy thought. As soon as I replace the mattress, that is.

  "Soon we will be wed," he told her. "I haven't told my father yet. I will when the time is right; I'll fly to the capital and let him know in person. I will tell your father too."

  Fire coiled through his chest, and his fingers trembled. Yes. Nairi's father. He was perhaps an ugly bastard, all bald and lumpy skin—not nearly as intoxicating as his fresh young daughter—but he was powerful, and if Leresy craved anything more th
an female flesh, it was power.

  His lips curled.

  Soon you will fear me, Shari, he thought. When I'm married to Nairi, the son-in-law of the Axehand Order's commander, you will fear me. Once I'm wed into the Axehand, even you will be unable to hurt me. Even you will shiver when I approach, dearest sister. You've tried to kill me so many times. Don't think I don't know this, Shari. But soon, very soon, the tables will turn.

  "I would like that," Nairi said, her voice small. She propped herself up on one elbow. "Would we fly and tell them together? I haven't been to the capital in a year now. I would like to return."

  He spun toward her and frowned, disgusted. "The capital?" He snorted. "What do you want to visit the capital for? Nova Vita is a cesspool, all politics and rules and…"

  And Shari trying to kill me, he wanted to say, but bit down on the words. No. It was best Nairi did not know about that. In the capital, there was his father, his sister, and motley nobles with daggers forged for stabbing backs. But here… here in the south there were perhaps crude mattresses, bare chambers, and peasant armor, but there was also dominion. Here, Leresy was lord.

  Once I'm wed to Nairi, I can return to the capital as a lord as well. Once Shari is killed, I will be heir.

  "Never mind that," he finished. "The capital will be ours in time. Get up. Get dressed. Don't you have recruits to train?"

  Some of the fire returned to her eyes. "Don't you have a floor to mop of blood?" She rose to her feet, lifted her clothes, and began to dress herself. "To answer your question, yes. There's a new shipment of fresh meat rolling in today—six hundred recruits from a southern backwoods called Cadport." She hopped on one leg, tugging up her leggings. "Cadport! What a ridiculous name. Why does your family insist on naming everything after itself?"

  He scoffed. "I'll do the same to you, wench. Nairi Cadigus you'll be when I'm done with you."

  And yet his belly tightened. Cadport, Cadport… where had he heard that name? He sucked in his breath, realization hitting him. Bloody Abyss. His sister had said something about flying down to Cadport; she had taken that brute Beras with her, a halfwit she had hired a few years back. Were these two events connected?