Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 42

  “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.

  13

  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.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when the armorer grunted, scratched himself, and fetched her a suit of armor.

  “Try this,” he said. “Tall and slim; should be a bit tight on you, but that’s how I like it.” He licked his lips and hissed.

  Tilla lifted the pack of leather and bolts—it was bundled together with straps—and retreated toward a bench where some recruits were already donning their own armor. After claiming a bit of bench, Tilla unwrapped the bundle.

  She found a breastplate studded with iron rings, its boiled leather hard, brown, and tough as wood. This was no fine, steel breastplate like the one Lanse Nairi wore, or like the breastplates Tilla had seen soldiers in Cadport wear—but it was real armor, and it would protect her. Tilla rubbed her chest where Nairi had held a punisher against her, and she wondered if this leather breastplate would protect her from further abuse.

  Along with the breastplate, she found tan leggings and a white undershirt, vambraces and greaves for her limbs, thick gloves, and even pauldrons of the same tough, brown leather. She was disappointed to see no armbands bearing insignia; even the armorer wore armbands.

  I’ll have to earn those ranks, she thought. She wondered how long it took to rise from recruit to soldier. She would not be a real soldier, she knew, until she had armbands with red stars.

  “Suit up!” Nairi was shouting across the hall. “Damn it, cockroaches, suit up—fast!”

  Tilla nodded, took a deep breath, and removed the woolen tunic and leggings she had worn all the way from Cadport. They were threadbare by now and smelled of mud and sweat and oil. The other recruits were undressing around her; after ten days in a cramped cart, all modesty had left them.

  Tilla wriggled into her new leggings, then donned her leather breastplate. Unlike a corset, this breastplate had its straps in the front—three leather belts with iron buckles. When Tilla tightened her armor, she gasped for breath. The damn thing was too tight. Tilla considered returning for a larger suit, but Nairi was screaming that she would slay anyone too slow, and the armorer was shouting while he handed away the last breastplates.

  Well, I’ll have to lose some weight in this camp, Tilla thought, the armor squeezing her. I have a feeling that it won’t take long in this place. I’m already thinner than I’ve ever been.

  Mae and Erry approached her, each clad in their own leather armor.

  “Merciful stars!” Erry said. She admired Tilla with wide eyes. “You look like a real warrior. That armor is skintight. Burn me, even I’d take you to bed in that suit.”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Mae scolded her. New tears filled her eyes. “She looks awful. And I look awful in this suit. And… and… this whole place is awful.”

  With that, the baker covered her face with her palms and cried silently. Erry only rolled her eyes.

  “Come on, girls,” Tilla said. “Let’s get some boots and helmets.”

  “And then swords,” Erry said and grinned.

  Tilla was immensely relieved to find boots her size. She thought that she could handle armor too small, but boots were one thing she needed to have fit well—and these fit beautifully. To be sure, the leather was as hard and unyielding as her armor, but Tilla thought that she could work it in. The boots rose tall above her leggings, ending just below her knees, and their toes were tipped with steel. As Tilla walked around in them, for the first time in her life, she felt powerful—a warrior.

  I’m no longer helpless, she thought, and this was a new feeling for her. Back at Cadport, she had always felt lowly, outcast, hopelessly crushed under the weight of the Cadigus Regime. But here, wearing this armor and these boots, Tilla felt strong. She felt like a soldier.

  And it feels good, she thought, and the thought surprised her.

  At a third alcove, she found a round, steel helmet that fit nicely and left her face exposed; lined with wool, it strapped under her chin with a buckle.

  “And now,” she said to her flight crew, “we grab swords.”

  Erry grinned and whooped.

  Mae, however, only sniffed. “Why do we even need swords?” she said and her lips trembled. “Aren’t we supposed to fight as dragons? Why can’t we just use our claws and fire?”

  “Because,” Erry said with an eye roll, “you’re not always going to fight in the sky! Stars, Wobble Lips, but you are slow, aren’t you? The Resistance hides in tunnels and caves and such. How are you going to fit in there as a dragon?” She grinned. “But we can get to them with swords. I’m going to stab them real good.”

  Nairi’s shouts flowed over them.

  “Back outside!” The lanse stood at the doors, shoving recruits outside, then glared at Tilla and her flight crew. “Grab your swords, you daughters of dogs, or by the red spiral, you’ll taste my sword.”

  Tilla nodded, remembering the sight of Nairi’s dagger thrusting into the red-haired girl. With her flight crew, she hurried toward the alcove of weapons. Most of the blades were already claimed. A soldier stood at the counter, balding and gaunt and blinking; he reminded Tilla of a giant ferret.

  Erry banged her fist against the counter, as if ordering ale.

  “Three swords please!” she said. “And make it snappy.”

  Tilla sighed. “When unarmed, Erry, never order around a man with swords.”

  The weaselly soldier grumbled under his breath, retreated to the back of the alcove, and returned carrying three blades. He delicately laid them on the counter.

  “Take care of these,” he said and gave them a longing pat. “Dragonforged, they are. Northern steel.” He glared up at the recruits. “If you scratch em, I’ll stick em into your guts.”

  “Well, why don’t you just take them to bed with you?” Erry said with another r
oll of her eyes. When she lifted a sword, those eyes widened, and her lips peeled back into a grin. “Bloody stars, now this is a sword.”

  The scrawny, dockside orphan drew her blade and swung it, forcing Tilla and Mae to leap back.

  “Be careful!” Mae said. She reached for her own sword hesitantly, as if reaching for a venomous snake, and her lips wobbled again.

  Tilla lifted the third sword and hefted it. The blade was sheathed in a black, leather scabbard attached to a belt. She slung the belt around her waist, tightened it, and let the sword hang against her left hip. It felt light—lighter than she had expected—but just heavy enough for comfort. She closed her hand around the hilt, squeezing and releasing, but did not draw the blade.

  My own sword, she thought.

  Since leaving Cadport, Tilla had felt afraid, naked, and alone. But gripping this hilt comforted her. She had a weapon now. She was armed. She was a soldier. For the first time, Tilla felt that maybe the Legions were not a nightmare world. Surely, this was a violent place, and a dangerous one, but there were rules to it. If Tilla played by these rules, she could grow strong here.

  Maybe someday I can be strong like Nairi, she thought, and wear an officer’s insignia upon my shoulders. I could command with justice, not cruelty, with pride rather than malice.

  Nairi was shouting again and herding recruits outside. Tilla hurried back out into the sunset. The rest of her phalanx crowded around her, all clad in leather armor and bearing swords.

  “Form ranks!” Nairi shouted.

  Perhaps it was the pride of armor and blade; this time, the recruits took formation faster than ever. Three lines formed. Boots slammed together.

  “Hail the red spiral!” Nairi cried, and hundreds of fists slammed against hundreds of breastplates.

  Tilla stood, chin held high. The sun was finally peeking through the clouds. She dared to feel a sliver of hope.

  14

  RUNE

  They entered the wide, shadowy hall of Valien’s crumbling palace.