Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 46

  She began to skip around him, tugging his arm.

  “You made that up,” he said.

  Yet she was tugging his hand too powerfully—damn it, the girl was strong for her size!—forcing him to spin around.

  “Come on!” she said and danced around him, the rain drenching her. “It’s fun.”

  He sighed and gave a quick, sarcastic jig. “Happy?”

  “Not nearly enough.” She placed both arms around him and pressed her body against his. “Just… do like this. Sway a bit. That will be an easier dance for your clumsy feet. Now go on! Put your hands on my waist—like this. Don’t stand there like a block of wood!”

  She grabbed his hands and placed them against her waist. Rune held her awkwardly. Even through her cold, wet tunic, he felt the heat of her body. She placed her arms around him, laid her head against his shoulder, and swayed gently. Her hair smelled of grass and flowers.

  Rune rolled his eyes and allowed himself to sway with her.

  “This is hardly the time to dance,” he said. “Not here in the rain and darkness.”

  She looked up at him. “It’s always time to dance, especially in the darkness.”

  Fast as a squirrel after a nut, she broke apart from him, grabbed his hand, and tugged him.

  “Now come on!” she said. “I want to show you something. Follow me. Come on!”

  She laughed and tugged him toward the temple columns. With a sigh, he allowed himself to be pulled. They leaped over a fallen column and raced between two standing ones, entering the ruins of the temple. Only the moon and stars, shining between gaps in the clouds, lit their way.

  Bricks and shattered columns littered the grass here, lumps of white upon black. Kaelyn scurried around the ruins like a dog seeking a scent. Finally she approached the fallen capital of a column, its marble carved as leaping dragons, and tapped the ground with her boot.

  “Here!” she said, leaned down, and pulled a rope from the grass. She tugged open a trapdoor.

  “Another gopher hole,” Rune said.

  Kaelyn smiled. “My favorite one.”

  They walked down a rough, wooden staircase and into a chamber. Kaelyn scurried around the room, lighting candles that stood upon shelves. Orange light fell upon jars of preserves, jugs of wine, racks of swords and bows, and…

  Rune gasped.

  “It’s… me?”

  Upon one wall hung a painting, life-sized, of himself clad like a king. Rune rubbed his eyes and stared. His doppelganger wore a crown, a green cloak embroidered with silver birch leaves, and a golden broach shaped as a two-headed dragon—sigil of House Aeternum. The painted king held a wide longsword, its dragonclaw pommel clutching polished amber the size of a chicken egg.

  It’s Amerath, Rune realized. The Amber Sword. It had been the sword of the Aeternum kings for a hundred years.

  Kaelyn came to stand beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “You look just like him,” she said.

  Rune tore his eyes away from the painting. He frowned at Kaelyn.

  “What kind of joke is this?” he said.

  She smiled sadly. “This used to hang in the royal palace. You gaze upon Ardin Aeternum, King of Requiem, the man my father slew.” She looked at Rune. “Your father.”

  Rune could not believe it. Could not! Surely Kaelyn had found some painter to trick him, or used dark magic, or… Rune clutched his head. Wil Brewer was his father! The Old Wheel was his home! He was only a brewer, not a prince, not…

  “Oh stars,” he whispered.

  Kaelyn approached a rack of weapons. A dozen swords hung there, the rough and simple blades of soldiers. Among them hung a bundle of green cloth embroidered with silver dragons. Kaelyn lifted the bundle, brought it toward Rune, and held it out.

  “It’s yours now,” she said solemnly. “It’s time you raised your father’s sword.”

  Her eyes shone with tears. She pulled back the green fabric, unveiling Amerath, the Amber Sword of Aeternum.

  It was the sword from the painting; every detail was the same. The candlelight danced along the black scabbard. The platinum pommel, shaped as a dragonclaw, clutched the amber stone. It was a large sword, at least four feet long, its hilt built for two hands. It looked heavy enough to chop down trees.

  To Rune’s surprise, Kaelyn knelt before him, holding the sword upon her upturned palms.

  “My prince,” she whispered.

  Rune wanted to laugh. Her prince? Stars, she was an emperor’s daughter! Yet he found no mirth upon his lips. Amerath beckoned to him, and Rune reached for the hilt and wrapped his fingers around it. The black leather was warm, soft, and worked in by many hands.

  “The kings of Aeternum have wielded this sword for generations,” he whispered.

  “Draw the blade,” Kaelyn said, still kneeling before him. Her tears shone in the candlelight. “Let its light shine in a temple of Requiem.”

  Rune took a step back. He drew Amerath, and its blade caught the firelight and shone, golden and red and white—a shard of memory and light. Despite its size, the sword was surprisingly light; it felt lighter than the Old Wheel’s broom. Rune raised the blade and saw his reflection within. He held it side by side with the painting before him.

  My father and me, he thought. The same face. The same sword. The same blood.

  “It’s true,” he whispered. “Stars, it’s all true, isn’t it Kaelyn?”

  She rose to her feet. “You loved Wil; I know it. He was a father to you too, more so than the king. This will not diminish your love for Wil Brewer or cheapen your memories of him. But now you have drawn Amerath, the Amber Sword of Requiem. Now the light of Requiem shines again in the darkness.”

  Rune sheathed the sword.

  “Well,” he said. “Lovely blade. Lovely painting. I do think I’ll need a better cloak now, and maybe some fancy doublet and jewels, but overall, not bad.” He looked around. “There’s only one more thing missing.”

  “What’s that?” Kaelyn asked

  “A chair. I really need to sit down.”

  He stumbled to the corner, slumped down onto his backside, and leaned against the wall. His head spun, and he clutched it. Kaelyn sat beside him and patted his shoulder.

  “No chairs here, but how about a strong drink?” she asked.

  “I would love a strong drink.”

  She nodded, rushed to a shelf, and grabbed a bottle. She yanked the cork out with her teeth, sat back beside Rune, and passed him the drink.

  “Here,” she said. “It’ll help.”

  Rune drank. It was strong rye—southern brew, he thought, possibly even from Cadport. The spirits burned down his throat and through his head. Stars, it felt good. He passed Kaelyn the bottle.

  “I think you deserve a drink too.”

  She took a swig, then wrinkled her nose. “Horrible stuff. I don’t know how Valien can drink it.”

  “It’s fantastic stuff,” Rune said. “And I reckon it’s from my hometown or very near it. We would serve this in the Old Wheel.” He sighed. “But the Old Wheel is gone now. And Wil is gone. And this sword is here.”

  Kaelyn leaned over and kissed his cheek. “And I’m here. I’m here to help you, Rune. You’re not alone.”

  His cheek blazed; her kiss shot through him, stronger than the spirits. Rune drank again and Kaelyn leaned against him. He placed his arm around her and found himself stroking her hair—soft, golden hair like silk. Her breath fluttered warm against his neck, and she placed her hand on his thigh. They huddled in the dark and cold, passing the bottle back and forth.

  “I don’t like any of this,” Rune said. “And I never wanted this war. I hold no love for your father, but I never wanted to pick up a sword and fight him. But yes, my home is gone now. My best friend is a soldier, and my family is dead. Like it or not, this is my life now.”

  “You have a new family,” Kaelyn whispered. “You have me, and Valien, and the rest of us. You will never be alone. Will you fly with us?”

&nb
sp; She was looking up at him, her eyes large and her lips parted.

  “I will fly with you,” he said. “I’m no warrior; I don’t know how to wield this sword. But I can fly as a dragon and roar fire, and however I can help you, I will, Kaelyn. I will fly by your side.”

  She smiled tremulously and touched his cheek, and her tears fell.

  Rune kissed her. He did not mean to. He did not want to. Yet he stroked her hair, and he kissed her, and her tears mingled in their kiss. It was warm and soft and wet, and it tasted of spirits, and Rune never wanted it to end. He held Kaelyn in his arms, and she was so small, a delicate doll held against him, and at that moment Rune loved her—loved this woman who had dragged him from his home into shadow and fire.

  He pulled away from her, leaving her breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed.

  I can’t, he thought. I have Tilla. I can’t. This is wrong.

  Kaelyn leaned against him, wrapped in his arms, and smiled softly. She closed her eyes and slept in his embrace.

  18

  TILLA

  Tilla stood in the square, arms pressed to her sides and chin raised. Her helmet topped her head. Her leather armor still squeezed her, so tight she could barely breathe. She kept her fist around the hilt of her sword.

  Nairi stood before the phalanx, face twisted like a woman staring at dung upon her boot.

  “Listen up, maggots!” the lanse shouted. “You are now divided into flights of three. These flights are your life! In tunnels and halls, you will swing swords in threes. In the skies, you will roar fire as three dragons. Every flight will have one leader—one attacker!—and two defenders. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Commander!” Tilla shouted along with the others.

  It was the only acceptable answer, of course. One recruit, only an hour ago, had dared to ask a question. Nairi had driven her punisher into the girl for so long her flesh had cracked.

  Flight commanders, Tilla thought and sucked in her breath. She knew that dragons flew in threes—two defending one attacker—but not how the attacker was determined.

  I’m going to find out now.

  “First flight!” Nairi shouted. “Forward.”

  Three recruits—those who formed the left flank of the formation—stepped forward. They glanced around nervously and clutched their swords. They were the daughters of farmers; Tilla vaguely remembered them selling eggs, fruits, and grains in harvest fairs. Today they wore armor and bore blades.

  Nairi snarled at the farm girls.

  “If you ask me, all three of you are worms. You should be squirming under my boots, not standing before me in armor.” The lanse raised her voice. “The last one among you standing will eat and sleep tonight! The two who fall first—you will spend the night cleaning the outhouses. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Commander!” the three answered, faces pale.

  “Your swords are blunt,” Nairi said, “but they will still bruise flesh. Swing them! Last one standing will lead your flight.”

  The girls glanced at one another, hesitating.

  Stars, oh stars, just swing your blades, Tilla thought.

  Yet the girls did not move.

  With a snarl, Nairi drew her punisher. She drove the crackling rod into one girl.

  The recruit screamed. She fell into the dust. Her body convulsed, and Nairi knelt above her, growling and shoving her punisher against the girl’s belly. The girl doubled up, weeping and begging and smoking.

  Finally, after what seemed like ages, Nairi withdrew her punisher and rose to her feet. She spat onto the fallen girl.

  “This one is out,” she said. She looked up at the two recruits who still stood. “Go on—fight each other! Or I’ll burn another one.”

  The two recruits swallowed, drew their blunt blades, and began to swing at one another. Steel clanged.

  “Faster!” Nairi screamed. “Harder! Beat her bloody.”

  The steel kept clashing. Finally one girl disarmed the other, slamming blade onto wrist.

  “Finish her!” Nairi ordered. “Beat her down.”

  The armed girl’s eyes were damp, yet she obeyed. She swung her blunt sword against her friend’s legs, sending her falling.

  Nairi spat in disgust. “Useless cockroaches, you are.” She snarled at the last girl standing. “You lead your miserable trio of worms. Drag the other two back to formation.” She turned back to the ranks. “Next flight—you three, forward!”

  The next flight stepped forward.

  More blades swung.

  As Tilla stood, watching each trio fight for leadership, she heard wings thudding overhead. She looked up to see a red dragon descend into the square, fire streaming between his teeth. Tilla sucked in her breath and her heart thrashed.

  Prince Leresy.

  The dragon landed before the phalanx, shook his head, and scattered curtains of smoke. He shifted into human form, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled. His plate armor shone in the dawn, black steel bedecked with gold. His golden hair shone just as bright.

  Whispers and gasps flowed across the ranks, and Tilla’s heart thudded. Smiling thinly, Prince Leresy stared directly at her—into her—and winked.

  “Hail Prince Leresy!” Nairi shouted and slammed her fist against her chest. “Kneel before your prince.”

  Nairi knelt, fist clutched to heart. The rest of her phalanx, Tilla among them, repeated the salute and knelt too. Tilla kept her head lowered, daring not look up, but she could feel Leresy still staring at her.

  Stars, why does he look at me among everyone? she thought. She only wanted to be a good soldier here, to fit in and fly low. And yet wherever she went, it seemed, she attracted trouble like flowers attracted bees.

  “Back on your feet!” rose his voice; it was smooth and melodious and still carried the high pitch of youth. “Carry on, please. I’ve only come to watch my troops, not interfere.”

  Tilla made the mistake of glancing back at the prince—just a glance—and caught him staring at her. His lips peeled back and he licked his teeth. She looked back at Nairi… just in time to hear the lanse shout her name.

  “Tilla Roper!” Nairi pointed her crackling punisher at her. “You and those two dogs of yours—forward! Let’s see who among you will sleep tonight, and who will clean nightsoil from a ditch.”

  Heart pounding, Tilla stepped forward, leaving the formation of her phalanx. The square seemed to spin around her. She felt hundreds of eyes watching her—her fellow recruits, her commander, and her prince. She glanced over her shoulder to see Mae frozen, her face pale, and Erry trying to shove her forward.

  “Roper, bring your two whores forward, or you’ll taste my fire!” Nairi screamed.

  It took some tugging from Tilla, and more pushing from Erry, to bring the trembling Mae out of formation and into the dust of the square. The three recruits stood together, trapped between the rest of their phalanx, Lanse Nairi, and Prince Leresy.

  “Draw your swords,” Nairi ordered.

  Tilla drew her blade. She gave it a few quick swings. It whistled as it sliced the air.

  Whenever Tilla had seen soldiers carrying swords—especially wide longswords like this one, their hilts large enough for two hands—she had thought them crude weapons for hacking and slashing. Yet this sword, even blunted, was light and agile. It felt no heavier than waving a sprig of holly. The blade was long and wide but flexible, and despite herself Tilla smiled. For the first time, she thought of soldiers not as brutes hacking with crude chunks of metal, but as artists mastering an ancient dance.

  At her side, Erry was waving her sword around, slicing the air. The slim girl seemed just as impressed; her eyes shone, and her lips peeled back in a smile. Mae, however, wasn’t even testing her blade; she merely held it before her, and it wobbled like her lip.

  I think I’ll only have one contender here, Tilla thought.

  Nairi took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and seemed ready to order the duel start. Before the lanse could speak, however, the prince interrup
ted.

  “A moment,” he said, raising his hand.

  Again he was looking straight at Tilla, and her heart thudded. He walked toward her, and Tilla stood frozen before him, sword in hand, not sure if to salute, kneel, or simply stand still.

  When Prince Leresy reached her, his lips peeled back in a smile, but it looked hungry, the smile of a wolf. His eyes scanned her from top to bottom; they lingered against her breasts, which pressed against her leather armor. He reached out, fast as a viper, and clutched her wrist.

  Tilla gasped.

  He’s going to kill me, she thought. Stars, I did something wrong, and he’s going to kill me now—just like his sister Shari killed the girl back at Cadport.

  But Leresy only turned her wrist, adjusting her grip on the sword.

  “Here,” he said. “Like this. Hold your right hand a little higher on the hilt. Now place your left hand beneath it near the pommel—like that. Give the blade a swing—from top to bottom.”

  The prince stepped back, and Tilla dutifully swung her sword. Leresy’s face split into a grin, and he clapped.

  “Splendid!” he said. “Now here, move your left hand to the base of the blade—just above the hilt. Don’t worry, it’s not sharp. This is called half-swording—a different grip. Give it a try.”

  Leresy stepped back again, and Tilla gave the blade a few more swings. Holding the sword this way, her thrusts were shorter but more powerful.

  “Good!” Leresy said. “You use this one for piercing armor. A strong soldier can break steel this way. Shorter range but tougher punch.”

  He stepped toward her again and reached between her legs. Tilla gasped, but Leresy only winked and moved her thighs apart.

  “Don’t get all flustered,” he said. “I’m just fixing your stance. Here, like this—legs parted, right leg forward. Try again! This time strike my blade.”

  He drew his sword and Tilla’s eyes widened. His was a beautiful blade. Its dark steel shone with ripples like midnight waves. Its golden, dragonclaw pommel clutched an egg-sized ruby. Tilla hated to attack such a beautiful weapon—what if she chipped it?—but Leresy beckoned her, and so Tilla swung her blade.

  He parried. The two swords rang.