Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 56

  “Tilla, let me through!”

  He grabbed her arms. She pushed him back.

  “Rune!” Her tears fell. “Please, Rune, listen to me. I made a vow. I vowed to defend Requiem. You can’t—”

  “Shari is getting away!”

  Rune grabbed her and tried to pull her back.

  She wrenched herself free.

  She raised her arms—only to block his climb—but he mistook her gesture for a sword’s thrust. He raised his own sword. Their blades crashed together.

  “Tilla,” he whispered, and surprise and pain filled his eyes. “Tilla, how can you do this? How can you protect her? Stars! We can end this tonight. Fight with me—with us. Not with… not with these murderers!” His eyes burned red. “I don’t know what they taught you. What did they do to you? Oh stars, Tilla—”

  “I am Periva Tilla!” she shouted.

  Her pain pounded through her. Her chest shook. Their swords swung and clanged again. All around them, the clock gears moved and clanged too, locked in their own duel.

  “You are Tilla Roper!” Rune shouted back. “You are a ropemaker from Cadport, Tilla! Don’t you remember? Can’t you remember who you are?”

  He tried to push by her. She blocked him again. Their swords rang.

  “That girl is dead,” she said, barely able to see through her tears. “I am a soldier now, Rune. I made a vow. I vowed to fight for my kingdom. I cannot let you pass. I cannot let the enemy through—”

  “The enemy?” Rune said, voice torn. “Stars, Tilla, I’m not your enemy! The Cadigus Regime—the ones you protect—are the enemy. Tilla, can’t you see?”

  Her body shook. Her throat tightened.

  “I see outlaws!” she shouted, weeping now. “I see a horde that burned my fort, that killed my friends, that slaughtered youths from Cadport. Stars, Rune! Six hundred youths from Cadport trained here! How many of your own townsfolk did you murder? How many of your own friends did you kill?” Her tears fell. “My brother served in this fort. He died serving two years ago—this Valien you follow murdered him! Now you murder too!”

  Rune froze. He stared up at her, panting, his eyes wide with horror.

  “I…” His sword trembled. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know the Cadport recruits were here. I—”

  “You flew with monsters!” Tilla was panting now, barely able to breathe. “And now they’re dead. Now hundreds of boys and girls—the people we grew up with—lie butchered across this fort. And you want me to let you through? I am Periva Tilla! I am a legionary of Requiem!” She slammed her fist against her chest. “I hail the red spiral!”

  He stared up at her, frozen. A tear rolled down his cheek, trailing through blood.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, Tilla. You don’t mean that. You can’t—”

  “Goodbye, Rune,” she whispered, and a sob racked her body. “Goodbye.”

  She spun around.

  She leaped through the broken door.

  She raced across the prince’s chamber, jumped out the window, and shifted.

  Wind and lightning and dragons flurried around her. Thunder boomed. The fortress and forests burned below, and smoke shrouded the world.

  “Tilla!” he cried behind her. “Tilla!”

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Rune standing in the broken window of the tower, calling to her, a shadow in the night.

  Goodbye Rune, she thought. I love you. I love you always. But now you are my enemy.

  She turned her head north, roared a pillar of fire, and flew into the blazing horizon.

  35

  SHARI

  She stood in her chambers, hand against the fireplace mantel, and stared down into the embers. The fire crackled and danced, a small battle whose light fell upon her. In the flames and shadows, she saw dragons aflight. She saw the Aeternum heir land upon her, claw at her flesh, and tear off her wing. She saw the deaths of thousands.

  Shari Cadigus clenched her fists.

  “You crippled me, Relesar,” she whispered. “You stole my wing. You will suffer. You will scream like none have screamed before.”

  Her eyes burned. Her fists shook. The flames danced in the hearth, an endless war, their light red like blood, and in their crackle, she thought she heard screams again: the screams of men dying, of her own body tearing, the rip of leather, and—

  A knock sounded on her door.

  Shari turned from the flame.

  She loosened her fists, took a shuddering breath, and raised her chin.

  “I will not succumb to the night,” she whispered. “I will not allow those flames to claim me.”

  She walked across her chamber, boots clacking against the tiled floor. Tapestries hung around her, depicting dragons aflight in war. Golden vases engraved with the red spiral stood upon her tables, and swords hung upon the walls. When Shari reached the door, she froze and took a deep breath.

  Do not show her your pain, she thought. No one must know. Here in the capital, weakness is death. Weakness is a stab in the back.

  She opened the door.

  Guards lined the hall, faces hidden behind their visors. Tilla Roper stood between them, dressed in a steel breastplate, her new insignia upon her arms. Her sheathed sword hung at her belt. Her black, chin-length hair peeked from under her helmet.

  “Commander,” the girl said and saluted, slamming her gloved fist against her chest. “You summoned me.”

  Shari nodded. “Come inside, Roper,” she said softly. “Close the door behind you.”

  She young periva entered. Shari led her across the chamber toward her table, poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to Tilla.

  “Drink,” Shari said. “Southern wine from your hometown.”

  Tilla opened her mouth as if about to speak, then closed it and nodded. She sipped.

  “Thank you, Commander,” she said.

  Shari looked upon this young woman.

  She’s only eighteen, Shari thought. A decade younger than I am, and frightened, and confused. But there is strength in this one. There is so much cruelty here for the red spiral.

  “I have a gift for you, Tilla Roper,” she said.

  She stepped into the corner and pulled back a silken veil, revealing a shield. Carved of oak and banded in iron, its surface was painted crimson. It sported a new sigil: a black cannon overlooking the sea.

  “Is this… mine?” Tilla asked, narrowing her eyes.

  Shari nodded. “Cadport has the oldest cannon in the empire, did you know? I visited it once; it stands upon the boardwalk, overlooking the sea. It no longer works. It rusted years ago. But it’s a great symbol of Requiem.” She looked at Tilla. “It will be a great symbol for you.”

  “For me?” Tilla asked and placed her glass down. “Commander, I’m but a commoner. I cannot have a coat of arms. I was not noble born.”

  “That is true,” Shari said. “But neither was my father.”

  Tilla’s eyes widened. “Frey Cadigus, the emperor… a commoner?”

  Shari laughed. “The poor son of a logger. He excelled in the Legions. He began as a humble periva—like you. He rose to power.” Shari lifted the shield and handed it to Tilla. “You will rise to power too. I vowed to you in Cadport, Tilla, that I will watch you closely. I have watched you, and I am pleased. Take this shield, Tilla of Cadport, and bear your sigil proudly. Hail the red spiral.”

  Tilla took the shield, lifted her chin, and blinked. She held the shield tight against her.

  “Hail the red spiral,” she whispered.

  Shari smiled softly. She touched the young woman’s cheek where a tear trailed.

  “You are overcome with joy,” she said. “That is good. You are a noble warrior and strong, but you must remember: Never shed tears. Never show weakness. If you shed a tear again, I cannot protect you.”

  Tilla nodded and blinked. “Yes, Commander. I vow to you: I will be strong. I will serve the Legions well.”

  Shari sipped her wine and looked back into the flames. They danced there
, the old battle of light and darkness, of heat and endless winter.

  “You will command,” Shari said and looked back at the young soldier. “Tilla, you were meant for more than servitude. You are noble now. You were meant to lead dragons in battle, not serve. Would you like to train in Castra Academia here in the capital, to become an officer someday like Nairi was? The training is grueling. You will have to train there for long moons, and they will break you. But if you survive, Tilla—and I believe you will—you will wear red spirals upon your shoulders. You will become a lanse like Nairi, a young officer. You will lead your own phalanx in war.”

  Tilla’s jaw shook, but she tightened it.

  “Castra Academia,” she whispered. “Commander! It is a fortress of legend. I would be honored. I vow to you: I will succeed. I will fight for Requiem.”

  They will break her there, Shari thought, looking upon this young girl. She will miss the southern Castra Luna. In the academy, they train no cannon fodder like they do in the south. They train killers.

  “Good,” Shari said and smiled. She lifted a scroll from her table and handed it to Tilla. “Only a Cadigus can appoint a cadet to Castra Academia. Take this scroll; it bears my seal. Fly there tonight. This scroll assigns you a chamber and commander. Your training begins tomorrow.”

  Tilla saluted, chin raised and lips tightened. She spun on her heels and marched away.

  “Goodbye, Tilla Roper,” Shari whispered, then winced.

  Pain flared across her shoulder where Rune had torn off her wing. Even when she stood in human form, the wound ached, and Shari rubbed it.

  “I will capture you, Rune,” she whispered through the pain. “And you, Tilla, will kill him. I heard you speak with him. I will have the boy die at the sword of his beloved.”

  Shari snarled, gulped down her wine, then tossed the cup into the fireplace. It shattered, and the wine burned like dragons ablaze.

  36

  RUNE

  Dawn rose over death.

  A light snow fell upon Castra Luna, a lingering whisper of winter. A shroud of white clung to the bodies as if preparing them for burial. Hands rose frozen, fingers reaching toward the snowflakes. Dead eyes stared. Mouths screamed silently. Everywhere the ice and frost glittered in the morning, a blanket of stars.

  Rune walked among the dead. The battle had ended.

  “We claimed this fort,” he whispered. “But we lost this battle.”

  He looked up at Kaelyn. She stood solemn at his side, snow in her long golden hair. The flakes covered her blue cloak and frost coated her armor, yet when she reached out and held Rune’s hand, her grip was warm.

  She whispered to him, “Battles are always lost. Where youths fall dead, the wise do not rejoice.”

  Rune lowered his head. “Castra Luna is ours. We claimed this fort. And yet… the emperor fled.” His eyes stung. “I killed so many. For nothing.”

  He walked across the courtyard. Dragons of the Resistance stood upon the walls around him, watching silently. The bodies of legionaries lay upon the cobblestones, some torn apart, others still whole and peaceful like children playing in snow. Rune walked among them, holding Kaelyn’s hand.

  “I know so many of these faces, Kaelyn,” he said. “This boy here—he was a weaver. I knew this girl—she used to sell eggs at the summer fairs.”

  “I’m sorry, Rune,” she whispered.

  He walked toward a fallen cannon and knelt by a body. It was a young woman, her strawberry hair braided. Her face was soft, doll-like, and her blue eyes stared.

  “I know this one,” Rune whispered. “Her name was Mae. She was the daughter of bakers. I used to buy bread from her.” His breath frosted and shook, and Rune lowered his head. His tears fell into the snow. “I’m sorry, Mae Baker. I’m sorry.”

  He closed Mae’s blue eyes, the eyes of a friend.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Rune,” Kaelyn said, kneeling beside him. “We couldn’t have known.”

  He looked up at her. “I killed them, Kaelyn. I killed my friends. I killed… oh stars. Tilla was right.”

  Kaelyn’s lips quivered, and she pulled Rune into an embrace so tight he could barely breathe.

  “You didn’t kill them,” she whispered. “My father armed them. My father sent them to battle. We could not have known. Please, Rune. Please.”

  He held her for long moments, then rose to his feet. He looked around him at the dead, hundreds of them youths from his home.

  “We will bury them,” he said. “We will bury them with honor—every one.”

  He shifted into a dragon, filled his wings with air, and flew toward the clock tower.

  Valien waited upon the roof, a silver dragon coated in snow, his left horn chipped away. The leader of the Resistance was staring north, his breath frosting. Rune landed beside him, and the two dragons—one burly and silver, the other slim and black—stared north together, silent.

  Finally Valien spoke.

  “Rune,” he said in his deep, raspy voice. “Rune, listen to me.”

  Rune wanted to speak, but did not trust his voice to remain steady. He nodded silently.

  “Rune,” said Valien, “what we’ve begun cannot end here. We cannot let these deaths be in vain. You hurt. You rage. You know loss.” He turned to stare at Rune, his eyes burning. “Do not let this be for nothing.”

  Fire filled Rune’s mouth. He wanted to burn the old dragon, to rage, to break down the tower, to fly into the forests and hide forever in their depths.

  “They’re all dead,” he said. “All the youths of my home. My best friend lived, but she serves the red spiral. What do I fight for now, Valien?”

  The silver dragon snarled. Fire flared between his teeth.

  “You fight for Requiem!” he hissed. “You fight for your father. You fight for your friends who lie dead below—yes, even if they fought for the enemy. We failed here in this fort, but we will fight on.” That raspy voice shook now, and the dragon’s claws gripped the tower so tightly they chipped the stone. “We will send word to every corner of the empire. We will drop scrolls upon every town and village. We will let them know: Relesar Aeternum has returned, and he rules the south, and he is king. Requiem will be freed.”

  Rune shook his head. “A king? Valien, my hands are stained in blood. How can I ever hope to rule Requiem?”

  The silver dragon’s rage seeped away. The smoke from his nostrils died. He sighed, scales clanking, and moved closer to Rune.

  “Have you ever seen the capital?” he asked, voice soft.

  Rune shook his head.

  Valien took a deep breath that rippled his scales. He closed his eyes and a smile revealed his fangs.

  “It’s not much to look at now,” the silver dragon said. “Now it’s all banners of the red spiral, and marching soldiers, and towers of obsidian, and statues of Frey.” Valien snorted. “Ha! But back then, Rune… back in the days of your father… you should have seen it! Whenever we’d fly toward the city, the guards would greet us from the walls, blowing silver trumpets. When we’d march through the streets, children would throw flowers at us, and people would smile. So many flowers, wine, pretty women…” Valien opened his eyes and winked. “You’d have liked that part, I think.”

  Rune lowered his head. “I’ve never seen a city like that.”

  “You will,” Valien said. “You will, Rune. That is why we fight. Not for strength, glory, or any of that rubbish Frey spews. We fight for flowers, for wine, and for silver trumpets upon white walls.”

  “And for pretty women?” Rune asked.

  Valien snorted a laugh; Rune did not think he’d ever heard him laugh before.

  “Especially for pretty women,” he answered. He nudged Rune with his wing. “Come on, Rune. Let’s fly back to Kaelyn. The dead wait below, and we will bury them. And we won’t forget the living. You are king of the south now. You have returned.” Valien’s eyes gleamed. “You will see the capital. I vow this to you. We will fly toward the walls of Nova Vita. Silver trumpets will
call you home.”

  They took flight and Kaelyn joined them. They soared high above the fortress, three dragons in the snow, and roared their song.

  Rune looked north. Beyond forest and mountain lay the capital, too distant to see. The throne of Requiem awaited him there; so did the emperor.

  “And you wait there too, Tilla,” he whispered.

  The snow fell and Rune blew his fire. The flaming pillar rose, a pyre for the dead, a beacon for the living… and a light for a lost friend.

  The story continues in…

  A BIRTHRIGHT OF BLOOD

  The Dragon War, Book Two

  Available Now

  About the Author

  NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

  Standalones:

  Firefly Island (2007)

  The Gods of Dream (2010)

  Flaming Dove (2010)

  Misfit Heroes:

  Eye of the Wizard (2011)

  Wand of the Witch (2012)

  Song of Dragons:

  Blood of Requiem (2011)

  Tears of Requiem (2011)

  Light of Requiem (2011)

  Dragonlore:

  A Dawn of Dragonfire (2012)

  A Day of Dragon Blood (2012)

  A Night of Dragon Wings (2013)

  The Dragon War:

  A Legacy of Light (2013)

  A Birthright of Blood (2013)

  A Memory of Fire (2013)

  The Moth Saga:

  Moth (2013)

  Empires of Moth (2013)

  Secrets of Moth (forthcoming)

  ~ ~ ~

  KEEP IN TOUCH

  Daniel@DanielArenson.com

  www.DanielArenson.com

  Facebook.com/DanielArenson

  Twitter.com/DanielArenson

  Mailing list: DanielArenson.com/MailingList

  THE WHITE TREE

  THE CYCLE OF ARWYN: BOOK ONE

  EDWARD W. ROBERTSON

  Copyright 2011 Edward W. Robertson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.