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.
"You let the boy slip away," he said.
Shari could not speak. Her throat constricted and fear pounded through her. There were none she feared more than her father—not the Axehand Order, not Valien the Resistor, and not an army of rebels. She lowered her head and nodded silently. Her blade dipped and its tip hit the floor.
Frey turned away. Muscles rippling, he thrust his dagger into the boar's stomach and pulled down, letting entrails and organs spill.
"I gave my useless son a useless fort," Frey said. He reached into the boar, bare-handed, and scooped out innards. "I gave him a pathetic pile of stones far south where he can't get into his usual trouble." He tossed organs into the bucket with a splash and looked over his shoulder, eyes hard chips. "I gave you a chance for eternal glory. And you let it slip between your fingers."
Shari glared and hissed. "I will find the boy, Father! I just need more time, and I need more men. He fled into the forests with Kaelyn. I need more dragons, and I can burn down every tree, and dig up every bolt-hole, and—"
"We used to be weak, you know," Frey said. He wiped his hand on his pants, turned back to the boar, and drove his knife along its flanks. "Not us, not the Cadigus family; we were always strong. But our kingdom. Requiem. We used to grovel before the world, and they would hunt us." He shoved his fingers into the boar and pulled down, peeling its skin; it came free with a tearing hiss. "Yes. They would relish our blood, and they reduced us to a quivering few. They butchered us like I butchered this boar. The Aeternum family did that to us; they had us kneeling in the mud before griffins, phoenixes, and men." He tossed the skin aside and stared at Shari. "I made Requiem strong. The boy, the Aeternum heir; he is a relic of that weakness. He is a drop of poison in the pure blood of dragons. If he meets that Valien, that rat and his rabble, the boy could become a figurehead. Valien will dream that he could place the boy on my throne." Frey snorted a laugh. "The man is a fool. He must be stamped out. Crushed. The boy must be taken from him."
"I will ta—"
"You will do nothing. You had your chance, Shari, and you failed." Frey snorted and began flaying more skin. "Maybe I should have sent your little brother on this task. Maybe—"
It was Shari's turn to interrupt.
"My brother is a fool!" she said and spat onto the floor. "Leresy is as great a fool as his twin sister. The two were always pathetic." She hissed. "But I am strong, Father. I am strong like you. I will make you proud and crush the Resistance, and I will bring you the boy so you can hang him here, gut him, and peel his skin."
Frey gave a choked laugh. "Will you now? You say your sister is weak. You say Kaelyn is a fool. Kaelyn is a traitor, that is true, but weak? Foolish? She found the boy before you did. You had one task—to beat Kaelyn to him. And you failed. So who is weak, Shari? Who is the fool?"
Flames seemed to burst through Shari, even in her human form. She snarled, screamed, and raised her sword as if she would strike her father down. He only stood still, staring at her with those hard eyes like granite.
Shari lowered her head.
Tears filled her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Father," she whispered. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
He stood staring, and no compassion or love filled his eyes. No, Shari knew; her father held no love for his children. He loved only Requiem, only the empire he had vowed to forever lead.
He gestured his head to the side. "The meat hook," he said. "That one there."
Shari hissed at him. Her legs trembled.
"I am no longer a child!"
"Today you are barely a worm," he replied. "Remove your armor. Remove this steel and hold that hook. If you let go, I will hang you there and gut you like this boar."
Shari wore steel plates; her father wore bloody leather. She held a longsword forged in dragonfire; her father held only a butcher's knife.
I can kill him now, she thought, snarling. I can drive my sword into him and take his throne, and this empire will be mine. He will be the one to bleed, not me.
Shari looked aside, eyes narrowed.
And Leresy would fly against me with his southern garrison. And that whore Nairi would summon her father, and the Axehand Order would descend upon me. The empire would collapse into war, and the Resistance would seize the chance; Valien would fly against me too, and his dragons would surround this palace.
Shari hissed. She hated her father but she knew: He held the empire together. He was the pillar of this realm, at least for now. If he died today, the world would burn. She would replace him someday, yes. But not with blood. Not with war. The time for her to pluck her fruit of power had not yet come.
So I will take his punishment, Shari thought. I will take his wrath. Every lash will make me stronger. Every blow will stoke my flame.
She removed her breastplate. She tossed it down with a clang. Eyes cold, Frey lifted his whip. Shari walked to the meat hook, held it, and closed her eyes.
Frey beat her. With every lash, Shari clutched the meat hook harder, ground her teeth, hissed, but did not scream.
"You have failed me," Frey said and his lashes kept falling, tearing through her tunic, tearing into her skin and flesh. "Feel the pain of your failure."
Shari trembled and smelled more fresh blood, the third spill of the day; this time it was her own.
TILLA
"Move!" Nairi shouted, pointing her punisher at an archway. "Get inside, worms. Move your arses or I'll shove my punisher up them."
The Black Rose Phalanx marched along a portico of columns, moving toward the archway; it led into a shadowy barracks. As she marched among her fellow recruits, Tilla wondered what lay within those shadows. More pain? More officers who'd burn and cut them? What horrors lurked here?
"Move, damn it!" Nairi screamed, marching alongside them. "Into the darkness."
At her side, Mae was already weeping. Silent tears streamed down the young baker's cheeks. Even Erry seemed shaken; her face was pale, lacking its usual smirk, and red rimmed her eyes.
Tilla felt her own eyes sting. She had seen three of Cadport's youths killed already: young Pery back at home, Jem Chandler along the road, and now the red-haired girl—a girl who had only sinned by being one soul too many.
No. Tilla tightened her lips and kept marching. If I am weak, I am dead. If I cry, I am dead. If I remember home, I am dead. I must be a soldier now, carved of stone, my heart of iron; thus will I survive this nightmare.
"Move!" Nairi shouted and goaded a recruit with her punisher, making the girl scream and scurry forward.
The phalanx marched in three lines, entering the barracks one flight at a time. When it was Tilla's turn to enter, she clenched her fists and sucked in her breath, prepared for any horror that might lurk inside.
Stifling air, the smell of leather and oil, and shadows awaited her. She blinked and it was a moment before her eyes adjusted. When they did, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's an armory," she whispered.
The hall was wide, tiled, and topped with a vaulted ceiling. The recruits gathered here. Behind wooden counters, which reminded Tilla of the Old Wheel's bar, loomed alcoves. One alcove held shelves of helmets. Another held boots. A third brimmed with suits of leather armor studded with iron. The final alcove drew most of Tilla's attention; inside she saw hundreds of swords hanging upon racks.
Outside every alcove, a gruff soldier stood at the counter like a barman. As the recruits streamed into the main hall, these soldiers shouted out their supplies.
"Helms! Get helms here! Move it!"
"Leather armor—grab your armor!"
"Line up for swords, damn you—swords here!"
Tilla wasn't sure where to start. Despite the horrors of the day, she found a smile tingling her lips. It soon widened into a grin.
I'm going to
get a sword! she thought. And armor! What would Rune think of me now?
Mae sniffed and clung to her arm. "But… Tilla," the baker's daughter said, and her lips trembled. "I don't want a sword."
Erry was staring around with wide eyes. "Well I do!" said the ragamuffin. "So watch out, Wobble Lips, because if you cry again, I'm gonna slay you right with it."
"Do you think…" Mae sniffed. "Do you think I can be a baker here too—like I was in Cadport? The Legions need bread too, right? There must be a bakery here somewhere, and maybe I can do that, not fight."
Erry rolled her eyes and snorted so forcefully she blew back locks of her hair. "Oh bloody donkey piss! Burn me, just grab a damn sword. Your days of baking are over."
Leaving the two to bicker, Tilla approached the alcove of armor. A grizzled old armorer stood there, cussing and spitting and shouting at the recruits.
"Here, runt," he said to one short, slim girl and tossed her a suit. "Smallest one I've got. Here, this is for you, pig." He tossed a larger suit at a larger girl. "Merciful stars, but you're going to need a leather sail. You! You—you with the big teats—bloody Abyss, how are you going to fit into a breastplate?"
A few of the girls smirked. Others retreated with their armor in tears. When it was Tilla's turn at the counter, the armorer gave her a shrewd look, scratched his chin, and nodded.
"Aye, you're a tall one," he said. "I like that. How about instead of suiting up, you suit down and slip with me into the shadows at the back?" He spat onto the floor. "I'll do my own slipping into a dark place."
Tilla rolled her eyes. "Well, haven't you just charmed me? Does that line ever work? Fetch me my armor, and maybe I'll forget to visit you again once I get my sword."
Behind her, she heard Erry snicker. Briefly, Tilla wondered if she had crossed a line; would she taste the punisher again for her words? And yet this gruff armorer wore no punisher or blade, and he bore but a single red star upon his armbands; Tilla guessed him too low ranking to threaten her.
All that matters in this place, she thought, is your rank. Upon her shoulders, Nairi bears the red spirals of an officer; she is death in boots. This man wears the red stars of a lowborn soldier; he is what boots like Nairi's tread upon.
A Legacy of Light (The Dragon War, Book 1) Page 13
