The Sydgilbyte burst out laughing. “What do they feed us? Nothing! You may try to turn us into farmers, but our traditions of hunting will never cease!”
“Kristos,” Rose said, interrupting the men. “Joshua told me that Sydgilbyn’s war party will be arriving by tonight or early morning.”
“Excellent! That’s what? Two days early?”
“Three. Does that complicate things?” Rose asked.
“Not at all,” Kristos responded. “We can use the extra time to plan. Both of you come with me to the keep.”
The sentinel’s keep was a set of three long stone buildings that, with the village wall, formed a square around the courtyard. The center building stood perpendicular to the two at its left and right and was joined by two towers standing fifty and forty feet high respectively. Kristos veered to the left on a cobblestone path toward the taller of the two towers. He pushed against the double doors at the keep’s base and entered the musty stone building. Lit sconces illuminated the hallways all the way to the spiral staircase. They climbed the tower’s steps up to the commander’s solar. It was a magnificent room—at least compared with the rest of the keep. There was a small bed in the corner by a window overseeing all of Freztad. From here, Rose viewed the edge of the farm and the southern wall. At the center of the room was a wide mahogany desk littered with parchment and blemished by wax stains. There were a series of shelves at the far end of the room which held books and various trinkets accumulated by the previous commanders. The top shelf was bare save for a single yellow goose-feather arrow. This was Rakshi’s, Rose thought. Only Rakshi dyed her fletchings yellow. Mounted to the wall above it was a two-handed war hammer. The head was made of thick steel and shaped like a small anvil.
“It’s called Vengeance,” Kristos said from behind Rose. His expression was cold, and Rose felt an icy shiver run down her spine. She had never once seen Kristos look so grim. When Rakshi died she watched him cry. At her funeral, Rose had watched him steam with fury when an Ænærian disrespectfully interrupted. Neither of those times had he ever looked so dead inside.
“It’s a beautiful weapon!” Joshua exclaimed. “Swing this against enough Ænærian skulls and you won’t be far behind in getting arms like mine.”
“I plan to,” Kristos replied. “It’s named for a friend of ours. She was among the first to die from this war, and I plan to make them pay for it.”
“This war isn’t about revenge, Kristos,” Rose warned. “It’s about preservation and making sure our homes stay safe so no one else dies the way Rakshi did. Besides, you’re fighting alongside Ænærians. You can’t display this kind of hate in front of them—especially if we plan on recruiting more Ænærians to bolster our numbers.”
“The Ænærian recruits are well aware of my anger toward their people,” Kristos answered. “It makes them train harder to prove their loyalty to me. Once they’re initiated as sentinels, they know I’ll embrace them as my brothers and sisters.”
“And what of the other Ænærians that join us when I become their queen?” Rose asked.
“Then they’ll no longer be Ænærians, but members of the Penteric Alliance.”
It wasn’t that simple, and Rose knew that Kristos knew it, too. She decided it would be best to drop it for now. There were more immediate issues to address. “So why did you want to bring us here?”
Just like that, Kristos shifted back to his typical friendly demeanor. “Right! Joshua, how many warriors will be arriving tonight?”
“Our battalion consists of twelve-hundred and fifteen soldiers.”
“And how are your people divided? I want to know everything.”
“We have fifteen units known as sygils. Each sygil is made up of eighty warriors and a general known as an argos. Four of these sygils are cavalry, and the rest are infantry. Everyone in the cavalry sygil is armed with a lance as his primary weapon, but he also carries a sword and shield in case they are dismounted or their lance breaks.”
Kristos jotted a few notes on the back of a piece of parchment. “I see. Tell me about the infantry.”
“Infantry is a slight misnomer because six soldiers in each sygil are mounted. One is the argos, and the other five are for communication between nearby sygils. They’re armed in the same way as the cavalry. Fifteen men hold the front line with their spears and shields to form a wall with another fifteen at their backs armed with bows and arrows; ten men are charged with manning the siege weapons; the remaining thirty-five fight with short-to-mid range weapons.”
Kristos jotted more notes on a second piece of paper, and then added more to a third. “The sentinels gained two-hundred and thirty-seven recruits—the vast majority of which are ex-Rhion. They are trained to be formation fighters, much like your infantry sygil. They’ve done a decent enough job of learning the Freztad-style of fighting, but they’ve had less than two moons to train. It’s not enough time to completely retrain them. I think it may be smarter to have them join your ranks.”
Joshua stroked his wispy mustache, deep in thought. “It could certainly give us an added edge against the Ænærians. The ex-Rhion can teach us the enemy’s formations and exploit their weaknesses.” He paused for a moment and muttered to himself as he counted on his fingers. “However, if we were to take all of the recruits, that would add just over twenty or so men to each infantry sygil. No argos has commanded a sygil so large.”
“Can it be done?” Kristos asked.
“The argos are the greatest strategists in Sydgilbyn. They’ll be up to the challenge.”
Kristos cracked his knuckles. “Excellent. I look forward to fighting alongside your people on the battlefield.”
“If you are the sentinel commander, why are you not staying to defend your village?”
“I’m training people for battle,” Kristos said. “Running drills is one thing, but most of us have very little combat experience. The most that we’ve had has been against wastelanders or small Ænærian parties these past two moons. I don’t want to stay in Freztad because I want to learn better ways to teach my people to fight, and the best teacher is experience.”
“Spoken like a true warrior. Freztad is lucky to have you as its sentinel commander.”
Rose hadn’t noticed that the muscles at the back of her neck were so tense until they suddenly relaxed and her shoulders lowered. Talks of war scared her. Freztad hadn’t seen large scale combat for decades, and she worried the sentinels wouldn’t be ready. If I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t think any of the sentinels were ready to replace Rakshi. When it had become time to choose a new commander, Rose was hesitant because she didn’t think any of the sentinels displayed the same instincts as Rakshi. All were motivated to fight and avenge their late commander as well as the other fallen villagers. They had all wanted to rescue Neith and Yeong, two of the sentinels who had been taken captive alongside Rose; only Zechariah had returned with her, and he had been more detached ever since. She ultimately recommended Kristos for his warm personality and ability to work with just about anyone despite his inner prejudices. Listening to him speak with Joshua about his plans made her confident that she had made the right choice.
Rose finally felt confident for the first time since being told she would be named Ænæria’s queen. She was worried people would call her a pretender or a fraud. She didn’t truly believe that Ænæria belonged to her, nor did she want to be its ruler. But she knew that she could do it if that’s what was needed of her. She had done it before. When her mother succumbed to the clutches of melancholia, Rose did not hesitate to take up the mantle as chief of Freztad. Now she had years of experience behind her—years of building relationships and exercising diplomacy. Those years had prepared her to take up her next challenge. She would call herself Ænæria’s queen and fight a war to defend that claim. Most Ænærians would think this was about birthright, but it wasn’t. It was about ensuring a better life for the future, just as Kabedge had said. If Ben was to be believed, then there was a bigger threa
t out there, and only a united force had any chance of stopping it. Ænæria was unstable, and it needed someone with experience to guide them. That someone would have to be Rose, and only now did she realize that she had what it took to succeed. Because Kristos was right—experience was the best teacher.
And Rose was a damn good learner.
6
Arynn
Ænæria
Two Moons Ago
Four Weeks Before the Council in Ignistad
It smelled like pine trees, dew, and dried blood.
Arynn glanced at her wrists. They were no longer bound but bore the red marks of the tight ropes used to subdue her after the assault in Jordysc. The Ænærians had been on the move ever since they destroyed Jordysc, the Miners Guild’s hidden base in the Neptuan province. They moved with a caravan of swift sun-carriages—to where, she did not know, save that they moved south, based on the direction of the rising and setting sun.
Every night they set up camp and moved the prisoners to their own tents, restricting them all to some sort of sadistic isolation. She wasn’t given food during the nights, and no one checked in on her. She had peered through the tent once, looking for ways to escape, only to find two rifle-clad rhion stationed outside. At first, she thought it was to keep her in, but the thought crossed her mind that perhaps they were keeping people out. Men traveling at war can become hard to control, their cravings insatiable. Perhaps she was lucky to have been left in solitude.
Her journey with Ben had been so hectic and eventful that she had barely kept track of the days. With nothing but time on her hands now, Arynn reflected on her travels and came to the conclusion that she had left Vänalleato with Ben over a moon ago. Arynn had never been away from home for so long, and she didn’t know how to feel about it. She loved her father but had learned he kept so much from her. It wasn’t right—she’d shared everything with him. She had some friends in Vänalleato, too, though she wasn’t particularly close with any of them. Not ever since Sera went missing.
After that, Arynn spent less time with peers and more with her father and customers. To make matters worse, she had been of marrying age for over a year, and there were always men gawking at her and begging her father to arrange a marriage. Many of them would tell her how she had the most beautiful hair they had ever seen or how her eyes were like luminous sapphires. She didn’t even want to think about the comments they made about her body…
All of it disgusted her and made her ashamed of the way she looked. And her father had understood. He declined every suitor regardless of how much of a dowry they offered. He could have retired early and bought a boat just like he always talked about and sailed from the Bay of Mashariq through the small rivers and channels that slithered their way to the great, wide ocean. But he understood why she didn’t want to marry—at least not yet. For years she had been too afraid to grow close to anyone. That’s why she surprised herself when she nearly kissed Ben in Jordysc. He was rather odd—especially at first—but Arynn secretly found his quirkiness endearing. What he had lacked in confidence, he more than made up for with his nobility, standing up for his values and putting his life on the line for others. Ben seemed to get Arynn. She felt so comfortable with him, able to be herself without fear of judgment.
And when he wasn’t frowning, he wasn’t bad to look at, either.
I’ve lost him now, too. Everyone I’ve cared for is gone. Ben is dead from that crossbow to the head; Sera’s been gone so long there’s no way she’s still alive. And I’ll never see Father again, nor could I look at him the same after all this. Arynn cried, and hot tears streamed down her cheekbones and dripped to the dirt in silent sobs. She was all alone now. She hadn’t had real human contact since seeing Ben die, and it was as if she had died with him.
She awoke each morning to the bright sun seeping through the tent and a Rhion poking the back of her head with the butt-end of a rifle and screaming for her to wake up and get ready. Her back was stiff from the hard ground she slept on.
She sat up and found a small wooden bowl by the front of the tent. Same as every morning. It was filled with a creamy semi-solid paste that was supposed to pass for food. Her stomach ached with hunger. There was never a spoon—probably so she couldn’t use it as a weapon—so she had to use her hands to guide the viscous slop to her mouth. It was bland, dry, and hard to swallow without something to drink. It was the only meal she received each day. When she finished eating, she placed the bowl back where she had found it.
Eventually, a Rhion came in to take it. Then they tied her up and threw her into the back of a sun-carriage, blindfolded and gagged with a rope.
Just another day.
Seeing only the sun at dawn and dusk with the occasional glimpse of light when allowed to relieve herself or take a drink of water made it difficult for Arynn to track the days. She had been convinced by the fifth day that she would soon lose track of all time between the monotony and isolation.
Every day had been exactly the same, and it seemed that the Rhion would continue taking her somewhere. She had no idea how far she was traveling or how long she would be kept alone. To keep herself sane, Arynn knew she needed to do something each night to break the monotony. So she exercised, each night focusing on something different. She had started on the third night with push-ups. With such poor sleep and little food, she felt weak and barely able to do more than eight in a row without dropping to the dirt, the bitter taste of earth seeping past her lips. The wounds in her back from the prison outside Parvidom ignited like sparks with each push-up. She kept going until her shoulders and chest burned and begged her stop.
The nights that followed she attempted more exercises. She tried sit-ups but was exhausted midway through the second set of ten. She switched to crunches and took breaks only when her belly shook and felt like it would catch fire from the pain. She attempted body squats, again until her legs were exhausted. Last night, her body sore all over, and the muscles weakened from overuse, she pressed on and ran in place until she grew too dizzy and risked passing out.
She woke up the tenth morning to gunshots and screams. Shadows whipped past her tent followed closely by the sounds of men dying.
The muscles in her legs were so sore from the previous night’s squats that she could barely stand, let alone engage in vigorous activity. Every part of her body was sore and weak. She got to her feet with difficulty and walked to the tent’s opening flap and stuck her head outside.
She saw fires and smoke billowing under the faint light of dawn. The only people Arynn saw were the Rhion, marked by their black and orange tabards. A Rhion raced toward a sword that lay unclaimed in the freshly dewed grass. He collapsed before his fingers could curl around the hilt, a hole weeping blood in his forehead. Another Rhion stood behind him, smoking gun in hand. A blood-stained blade of steel erupted through his chest, courtesy of a Rhion to his back.
They were killing each other.
Arynn retreated back into her tent immediately. There was nothing in there to defend herself with. Hiding remained her only option. That or run into the frenzied battlefield. Why are the Rhion fighting each other? She wondered if some of them were actually Miners Guild members in disguise—men who had defected like Darius. They’ve finally come for me!
Soon, the sounds of massacre ceased. The sun was bright and shining through her tent, trapping the heat within. Boots sloshed against the damp ground. They were getting louder, closer. Despite the weakness in her body and what she knew she’d be up against, Arynn widened her stance and raised her fists for a fight.
The tent opened and two Rhion entered.
“Stand down,” one said. He stepped closer and Arynn swiped her nails against his hand the second it was within reach. The Rhion cursed, and blood trickled from the back of his hand.
The other Rhion spoke up. “Girl, we’re not trying to hurt you. Just calm down!”
“Ascendants take you! I’ll die before I let you put your hands on me!” Arynn felt her legs shake, t
he muscles burning with the aches of overuse and weak from living off a bowl of slop a day. She wouldn’t be able to fight them for long. They were both armed, too. She could never hope to win. Only put up a pitiful excuse for a fight.
“We’re not with those Rhion who held you prisoner. They’re all dead now. No one here wants to hurt you. We were sent here to save you.”
The smallest ember of hope had been fanned back to life by those final words. It was what she’d been praying for every day. She was free. She was safe. Her legs finally gave out, and she collapsed to the ground. She could go home and no longer be alone.
7
Ben
Longyer, Svaldway
Present Day
A large fire crackled in the stone-walled dining hall at the center of the village. He and Mandi sat near the end of the table, Ben close to the fire and Mandi a few seats down. Most of the villages had retreated to their homes for the night, despite it still being bright out. An odd phenomenon in Ben’s eye, but apparently the norm for the natives. Half the year was spent in nearly total sunlight—the other half plunged in darkness.
Longyer rested at the base of the mountain, guarding the spiraling passes leading to the Grand Vault. The village had been erected just over sixteen years ago when Ben’s parents and their friends first discovered the Vault. Jesse and Marcus, two of his father’s oldest friends, had watched it ever since Alphonse entered the Vault and never returned, roughly six years ago. The island was bitter cold—resting nearly as north as north went. Fires stood all across the town, exhaling as much heat as they could all day long. Even the summer air did little to temper the island’s icy touch. Its people lived mostly off of fish and seagrass with the occasional seal and reindeer to fill their hungry bellies. Ben had once thought of the Sydgilbytes as the toughest people in the world. They lived south of Freztad near a stretch of uninhabitable desert said to run across his home continent. He doubted even they could survive the harsh lifestyle the Svaldwegians endured year after year.
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