EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (174 page)

When they all stood in three lines, Beras stared at them in disgust.

“Miserable maggots,” he said and spat again. “Bloody waste of time, you are. Good riddance to you. I deliver you now to your new masters. My only regret is I won’t be here to see you broken.”

He marched down the lines, huffing and thumping his boots. When he walked by Tilla, he paused and turned toward her. His beady eyes narrowed. His breath wafted between his crooked teeth, scented of rotting meat.

Tilla stood stiff and frozen before him, chin raised. Her heart pounded, but she dared not say a thing, not even breathe.

“Oh, I’ll miss you, child,” Beras said, voice rough as his face. “I’ll be seeing you again, don’t you doubt it. You’ll spread your legs for me yet.” He spat onto her face. “You’ll be mine, whore.”

With that, he stepped back, shifted into a bronze dragon, and took flight. With a few flaps of his wings he was gone, leaving only a wake of smoke.

Tilla stood, knees weak and nausea rising in her. Belas’s foul spit clung to her face, but she dared not wipe it off. The last recruit who’d moved in formation had been dragged off, hung from a tree, and beaten until his ribs snapped. And so she stood, breathing hard and struggling not to gag as the saliva dripped down her cheek.

“Recruits!” rose a female voice above. “Face north!”

Around the courtyard, a thousand soldiers spun upon their heels, slammed their boots down, and faced the grand hall. Fumbling and glancing around, Cadport’s recruits followed, a breath late. Tilla and the others stood facing the hall. Upon its walls, the two dragons—red and gray—glared down at them, smoke pluming from their nostrils.

The gray dragon blasted fire skyward, then shifted. She stood upon the walls in human form, hands on her hips and a smirk on her face.

She was a young woman; she looked not much older than Tilla herself. Her yellow hair was just long enough to fall across her brow, and mockery filled her eyes; Tilla could see that even from here. She wore tan leggings, tall boots, and a breastplate engraved with a black rose. A sword hung across her back, and a she held a punisher in one gloved hand. Its tip crackled.

“Welcome to pain!” the young woman shouted. “Welcome to blood, to tears, and to death. Welcome to Castra Luna! I am Lanse Nairi, but to you, I am a goddess, I am a mother, I am a tyrant, and I am your savior.” She smirked. “To me you are worms to crush.”

Lanse
. Tilla had heard that word before. It was a rank, she remembered. Tilla knew little of rank; she did not know how lofty a lanse was.

Lofty enough to command me,
she thought.
But then again, that is probably everyone here other than my fellow recruits.

“Today,” Nairi continued, “we have a new lord in Castra Luna. Kneel, servants of the red spiral. Kneel before Prince Leresy Cadigus!”

Nairi gestured toward the red dragon, who snorted fire and shifted into human form.

The recruits below gasped, paled, and knelt.

The red dragon now stood as a young, golden-haired man. A smirk played across his lips. Unlike the others in this fort, Prince Leresy wore no crude leather. The finest steel plates formed his armor, each filigreed with golden dragons. A cloak hung across his shoulders, the crimson fabric lined with fur and probably worth more than all the coins in Cadport. A sword hung at his belt, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw, its scabbard jeweled. A red spiral, shaped of rubies, shone upon his breastplate.

Shari’s younger brother,
Tilla thought, glancing up at him as she knelt.
Ten days, and I’ve met two of the emperor’s children, and I don’t know which one frightens me more.

“He’s looking right at you,” Erry whispered from the corner of her mouth; the urchin knelt beside her. “The prince. Bet he wants to thrust right into you with his royal rod, and I don’t mean his punisher. Not bad-looking, he is. Bloody bollocks, Tilla, but all the menfolk stare at you. I also need to grow a pair of big—“

“Shush!” Tilla whispered.

Terror froze her, but it seemed nobody had heard the exchange. She glanced back up at Prince Leresy. He stood on the wall, looking down upon the courtyard, and again he met her eyes.

She shivered. She had heard of Leresy’s cruelty; everyone in Requiem had. They said that every week, Prince Leresy walked through the capital, seeking a woman he fancied. They said he favored mothers. When he found one, he would slaughter her family before her eyes, take her to his palace chambers, and force himself upon her. In the morning, they whispered, servants would collect the woman’s battered corpse from the courtyard outside Leresy’s window.

And now this prince—this monster—stared right at her across the crowd. His smirk grew, and he gave her a wink. He licked his lips—slowly, luxuriously, as if savoring the taste.

Tilla forced her gaze away. Her belly twisted and her heart pounded. She released her breath, only now realizing she had held it.

I must never stare at him again,
she thought.
He is the most dangerous man in Requiem.

“Children of Requiem!” the prince cried. He had the high voice of a youth, but carried it with the arrogance of a man. “I welcome you to my home. Rise.”

The recruits rose to their feet, those newly arrived and those already armored.

“Hail the red spiral!” Prince Leresy shouted and slammed his fist against his chest.

“Hail the red spiral!” shouted thousands of recruits below, and thousands of fists thumped against chests.

To her left, Tilla heard Mae whimper. To her right, she heard Erry smirk and whisper something about sneaking into the prince’s bed. But Tilla only stood still and silent, and though she had vowed to never look at the prince again, she could not help it. She found herself once more glancing his way.

He met her eyes and stared. The stare seemed to last forever, and in his eyes Tilla saw haughtiness, lust, and unending malice.

Without another word, the prince spun on his heel and stepped away from the battlements. He vanished, leaving Tilla feeling as empty and violated as a ransacked home.

“All right, you miserable lot of filthy maggots!” Nairi shouted above. She shifted back into a gray dragon and took flight. “It’s time to sort your useless arses into phalanxes. A bloody waste of time, if you ask me.” She blasted a pillar of fire. “Commanders, to the courtyard! Fresh meat!”

With roaring fire and thudding wings, five dragons appeared, rising from behind the grand hall. Fire and smoke filled the air. Scales clanked. Orders rang. Soldiers rushed about the courtyard, goading recruits with crackling punishers. Welts rose on flesh and recruits screamed.

Tilla moved with the crowd, her belly knotting.

Her life in Castra Luna began with fire, smoke, and pain.

RUNE

T
HEY
CLIMBED
THE
HILL
,
CLOAKS
billowing in the wind, and beheld a landscape of ruin.

Rune stood for a moment, frozen, and softly exhaled. At his side, Kaelyn nodded and took his hand.

“My father’s cruelty,” she said. “Here it lies below us. Here we hide. Here we fight him.”

They had been traveling through the wilderness for ten days now, keeping off the roads. At least, Rune thought it was ten days; it all blurred into one long, confused dream of hiding in holes, scurrying between trees, and living off dwindling supplies of dried meat, rough cheese, and stale bread. He had fled Cadport wearing everyday clothes—old boots, woolen pants and a tunic, and a warm cloak—and the journey had worn them into tatters. He was down one notch in his belt already, and he felt about a day away from losing another notch.

And here... here they reached the end of their journey, and Rune realized: He would miss the long days in the wilderness.

“Why this place?” he said, a chill tingling his spine. He turned to look at Kaelyn. “In the entire empire of Requiem, with all its forests and mountains and swamps and deserts, why hide here?”

She stood watching the ruins. The wind ruffled her golden, wavy hair and pinched her cheeks pink. She held her sword’s hilt, and suddenly she seemed so sad to Rune, sadder than he’d ever seen her. Years ago, a wandering bard had traveled to Cadport, entered the Old Wheel, and played a song upon his harp. Men had wept to hear the music of old forests, ancient kings, and starlight upon marble columns. Rune had never forgotten that song, that sadness of longing and beauty; today he saw the same song in Kaelyn’s eyes.

“It is safe,” she said softly. “Imperial dragons fly here, but they don’t land. No one but the Resistance walks among these ruins. We can hide here, survive, arm ourselves... and dream.” She turned to look at him, and her eyes glistened with tears. “This place reminds us. Everywhere you look here, you will see my father’s evil. It keeps us strong. And one day, his collapse will begin here—in this place that he crushed.”

Rune looked back at the fallen city.

Confutatis,
he thought. He knew of this place. He had seen its maps and cityscapes in the books hidden under the Old Wheel’s floor. Only twenty years ago, this had been the capital of Osanna, a kingdom east of Requiem, a land whose people could not shift into dragons but rode horses, wove silk, studied the stars, and honored ancient alliances with the Vir Requis. In the old pictures, Rune had seen spires scraping the sky, temples with silver domes, thousands of homes and streets, and white walls topped with banners. It had been a place of life, science, and creation.

Today he saw a place of death, ash, and shattered stone.

The white walls lay fallen. The streets and homes lay shattered. The stems of towers rose like broken ribs, barely taller than men. The city spread for miles; a million souls must have lived here. Today Rune saw no life but for crows that circled above.

All who lived here—dead,
he thought.
Cadigus killed them all.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why would your father kill so many, crush an entire city?” He spun toward her, eyes stinging. “These people had no magic; they could not become dragons, could not defend themselves. Why, Kaelyn?”

“Because he is proud,” she replied, looking upon the city. The wind billowed her blue cloak. “Because he is cruel. Because he is hurt.” She sighed. “My father... when he was younger, he trained to be a priest, did you know?”

Rune frowned. “A priest? Your father? I’ve met priests; they tend to be meek, humble, and kind. I’ve seen statues of your father. He doesn’t exactly seem the priestly type.”

“He isn’t,” Kaelyn agreed. “But he was born into poverty, the son of a logger. His father beat him, and priesthood was an escape. A temple could give him food, shelter, and most importantly—books. My father had always craved knowledge.”

“He doesn’t seem the bookish type either,” Rune said, remembering the man’s statues. Even carved in stone, Frey Cadigus scared him. The emperor was a tall, powerful man—or at least sculpted that way—clad in armor and bearing weapons. Yet the statue’s eyes would always frighten Rune the most. Those eyes stared, cold and always watching, from a hard, lined face. Those eyes seemed crueler than the man’s sword.

“Books contain knowledge, and knowledge brings power.” Kaelyn tightened her cloak around her. “He spent years in temple libraries, reading every book he could find. He especially craved histories of battle; even then he lusted for blood. He read how the people of this land, of Confutatis, enslaved the griffins, rode them to war, and toppled the halls of Requiem. That was a thousand years ago, but to a skinny boy in a dark temple...” She shook her head sadly. “I think those stories stabbed him like griffin talons. He left the priesthood. He became a soldier, an officer, and finally a general powerful enough to take Requiem’s throne. And then... then he became a killer.” She gestured at the city. “Then he took his vengeance. Deep inside, he was still that boy in candlelit libraries dreaming of slaying Requiem’s enemies. But now this boy had an army of dragons. And still this death lies before us.” Kaelyn gripped her sword. “And here, Rune, here his own death rallies.” She began walking downhill. “Come. I will take you to Valien.”

Ash swirled around their boots. Charred trees and skeletons, their flesh picked cleaned, littered the hillside. Kaelyn squeezed Rune’s hand. Her grip was warm, and when he looked at her, she stared back with huge, somber eyes.

At the foothills, the ruins spread around their feet. The shells of houses stood blackened, roofs gone, walls chipped like teeth in smashed jaws. Bricks, shattered blades, and cloven helms littered the streets, so thick Rune had to wade through them. Inside the homes, skeletons still lingered—soldiers grasping rusted swords, children hiding in corners, and mothers huddling over babes. Dragonfire had burned them; the bones were charred.

Rune could barely breathe. His throat constricted. His fists trembled. He wanted to reel toward Kaelyn, to shake her, to yell at her.

Why didn’t the Resistance bury them!
he wanted to demand.
How could you just let your father’s victims lie dead here?

Yet when he looked at Kaelyn, prepared to shout, he saw tears on her cheeks. She did not tremble. She did not weep. She walked tall and proud, clutching her sword and bow, a warrior. Yet tears for the fallen, even these strangers of a different kingdom, shone in her eyes. Rune felt his rage ebb, and sadness replaced it.