EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (191 page)

Today I will watch the prince wed,
she thought.
Today I will receive my rank. Today I will become a soldier, ready for war.

The tower rose above her, a shard of obsidian scratching the sky. Its great black-and-red clock chimed noon, and Tilla sucked in her breath, raised her chin, and struggled to calm her thrashing heart.

Her fellow recruits stood across the walls and courtyards, three thousand in all. Many were from Cadport, youths she had grown up with; the rest were from towns and villages across the south. They stood in their phalanxes, a hundred each. Tilla clutched the standard of her own phalanx, a black rose within an iron ring.

Nairi Blackrose herself, her commander and soon her princess, stood before her. She wore her finest armor this day, polished black plates engraved with roses. Her insignia—the single red spiral of a lanse—shone upon her shoulders.

Tilla herself wore metal for the first time. The prince had equipped all his recruits with real steel for this day. The armorer had forged Tilla’s breastplate only days ago. It fit snugly, polished black and engraved with a red spiral upon the chest. Soon she would receive armbands, and each one would display a single red star.

I will be a periva,
she thought.
A low rank, yes. But I will be a true warrior of the Legions, no longer merely a recruit.

Her fingers tingled to think of it. After all this time—three moons of pain and dirt and sweat and blood—she would become a true soldier.

I made it,
she thought.
I survived Castra Luna.

Wings thudded, and Tilla looked up to see the emperor, the princess, and the prince—three dragons in armor—descend into the courtyard. Once they landed, they shifted into human forms.

Frey Cadigus stood in the center, the tallest among them. His dark, thinning hair was slicked back. His eyes, shards of stone, stared upon the troops that stood before him. His thin lips twisted, deepening the grooves around his mouth. His face was almost cadaverous, Tilla thought, but his armor shone, and his shoulders were wide and strong.

Frey raised his fist.

“Hail the red spiral!” he shouted, then pounded that fist against his breastplate.

Across the courtyard, the soldiers repeated the cry.

“Hail the red spiral!”

Fists rose, then pounded against chests. Tilla sucked in her breath, and her body tingled.

This is power,
she thought. Thousands of warriors shouting together, united under one banner—this was glory.

She was no longer afraid
,
she realized. It was the first time in moons, maybe in years, that she felt no fear. She had come to Castra Luna a timid, terrified girl. Now she stood as a warrior, clad in steel, a sword at her side, shouting for the glory of her kingdom.

“Today you become soldiers!” Frey Cadigus cried to them. “You have trained for long moons. You have grown strong. You learned to fight with swords, to fly as dragons, to kill our enemies. But more importantly, you learned our moral code.” He clenched his fist. “You learned of strength. You learned of honor. You learned that pity, compassion, and cowardice lead to decline and death. Requiem is strong! Requiem is a great blade and a pillar of flame. Requiem will never more fall. Hail the red spiral!”

“Hail the red spiral!” Tilla shouted with the others, fist raised.

The cry echoed across the fortress, across the forest, across the empire itself. Tilla held her head high, allowing the power to flow through her.

“Speak your vows,” Frey called out, “and join the might of Requiem.”

Across the courtyard, the ranks of troops held fists to chests and chanted together. Tilla spoke with a loud, clear voice.

“I hail the red spiral. I hail Emperor Cadigus. I vow to fight for Requiem. I will crush her enemies. With fire and steel, I will slay all who threaten her. I am strong. I am proud. I will allow no weakness, fear, or mercy in my heart. I am the fist, blade, and flame of Requiem. The fatherland will never fall! Hail Requiem—today I am her champion.”

As Tilla chanted her vows with thousands of others, she felt that strength rise through her. She had always been so afraid, so weak; for the first time in her life, she felt pride.

Is this not better than fear?
she thought.
Is this not better than the woman I was—crushed under the emperor’s boot, timid, alone? I was so afraid then, but now I am strong.

The lanses, commanders of the phalanxes, marched forward. They carried boxes full of black leather armbands.

Nairi stood before her phalanx, hands on her hips, and nodded.

“Today I am proud of you,” she said. “I broke your bodies. I broke your souls. I molded you into warriors. Today you are soldiers of Requiem.”

Tilla stared at the box. Each armband gleamed with a single red star; it was the lowest rank in the Legions, but by the stars, it meant she was a real legionary now. She felt her eyes dampen. All her life, she had lived in hunger, poverty, and fear. Now she had achieved something—a bit of honor. She would wear her insignia proudly and know:
I survived and I have a purpose.

Nairi began to call out names. Across the courtyard, other lanses were doing the same.

“Erry Docker!” Nairi shouted, and the slim urchin stepped forward.

“Yes, Commander!” Erry said, the shortest among them but today standing tall.

“I promote you to Periva Erry Docker,” Nairi said, reached into the box, and produced two armbands. She buckled them around Erry’s thin arms; they gleamed with the new rank. “Hail the red spiral!”

Erry saluted. “Hail the red spiral!”

The young orphan, now a warrior, returned to her formation. Her face beamed.

“Mae Baker!” Nairi cried next, and soon Mae too wore insignia upon her arms.

When it was Tilla’s turn to walk forth, her knees shook, and she clenched her fists to hide her trembling fingers.

“Yes, Commander,” she said, standing before Nairi.

Nairi stared at her, eyes narrowed and shrewd. The lanse paused.

She’s not going to promote me,
Tilla suddenly thought, and fear washed her.
She still remembers how Leresy touched me. She’s still jealous. She’s going to pull out her punisher and hurt me—right here before the emperor. Oh stars...

“Tilla Roper,” Nairi said slowly, nodding.

Tilla’s belly clenched with fear; Nairi was among the most powerful women in Requiem, and after tonight’s wedding, she would only rise in status.

She could kill me here in this courtyard,
Tilla knew,
and nobody would bat an eyelash.

“Yes, Commander!” Tilla replied.

Nairi tilted her head, examining her quizzically. “You think you are a soldier, Roper?”

Tilla raised her chin high. “I will fight for the red spiral, Commander.”

“Will you now?” Nairi leaned close and whispered. “Or will you just spread your legs for my husband?”

Tilla’s heart thrashed. Sweat trickled down her back.

“I...” She stiffened and whispered back, “No, Commander! He is yours. You are a great leader, a woman of nobility and strength. I am but a lowly servant of the empire.”

“You are
my
servant,” Nairi said, teeth bared. “Do not think—not for an instant—that you are free of me today, Tilla Roper. You will remain in my phalanx. I commanded you in training; I will command you in battle. You will be mine for the rest of your service.” She clutched her punisher and its tip flared. “If I see you near him, Roper, your last punishment will seem merciful. I will drive this punisher against you all night until you beg for death. Do you understand me?”

Tilla felt herself blanch. She took a shuddering breath.

“Yes, Commander,” she whispered.

Nairi all but slammed the bands onto Tilla’s arms, tightening them so hard it hurt.

“I promote you to Periva Tilla Roper!” she shouted, teeth still bared. “Hail the red spiral!”

“Hail the red spiral!” Tilla shouted in return, then stepped back into her formation.

Bloody stars,
she thought. Her breath shuddered. She had thought that, after the wedding, she would be rid of Nairi. Wouldn’t a princess of Requiem command entire battalions, not a humble phalanx of only a hundred troops? When Tilla had heard of the wedding, she had rejoiced, thinking that Nairi would leave her.

How will I fight under her heel?
Tilla thought.
Is there any hope for me to ever leave the Black Rose?

When all the troops had received their rank, Frey Cadigus raised his fist and shouted for the red spiral. The troops returned his call, three thousand new warriors of the empire.

Prince Leresy paced the courtyard and cried to the troops.

“Today you are warriors! I have trained you well. As my gift to you, you may stay to celebrate my wedding. You will feast with me! Today you will dine upon fresh meat and wine.” Leresy raised his fist in salute. “Tomorrow you will fly to war, soldiers of Requiem. Hail the red spiral!”

LERESY

“E
VERYTHING
CHANGES
TODAY
,”
HE
WHISPERED
, perched upon the fortress walls in dragon form. “Today Leresy Cadigus rises.”

He snorted fire from his nostrils. Below him in the courtyard, tables were set out in the open air. Winter was ending; the day was crisp but sunny. Smoke was pumping from the kitchen chimneys, and when Leresy sniffed, he could smell his wedding feast cooking. There would be roasted fowl, wild boar, lambs cooked in mint, and hundreds of pies and loaves.

It was a small feast, of course, compared to the splendor of the capital. Had he chosen to wed in Nova Vita, the Fire of the North, the entire city—a million souls—would feast with him. Banners of gold and crimson would flap from every roof. Ten thousand dragons would fly overhead, roaring for him. Troops would march down hundreds of streets, blowing horns and chanting his name.

Here in the south there would be none of that. Here in Castra Luna there would be some food, some drink, but mostly power. And power was what Leresy craved even more than splendor.

This is my domain,
he thought and blasted smoke from his nostrils.
Here is my fortress, my rule, my home. Here I will form this great alliance, and from here my wrath will descend upon the capital.

His troops stood upon the walls around him, all in human forms. Some faced the forests, keeping watch upon the horizons. Others faced the courtyard below; they would witness the glory of his wedding.

Again Leresy’s eyes sought out Tilla. He saw her upon the eastern wall. She stood with her back to him, keeping vigil upon the woods. She held the banner of the Black Rose, a ring of iron upon a wooden pole—Nairi’s sigil.

Strangely, seeing Tilla holding the sigil of his betrothed only made her more intoxicating. Tilla’s hair blew in the wind, revealing her pale neck. She was a tall, noble warrior, yet so fragile, so afraid, so weak compared to his might. Leresy had always wanted to break her, to hurt her, to hear her scream, yet now he felt a strange need to comfort her.

What if he flew toward her, grabbed her, and carried her into the wilderness? What if they found some distant land to dwell in, just him and her? No more Shari plotting to kill him. No more Frey belittling him. No more Nairi craving his power and planning her ascent.

I could protect you from all that, Tilla,
he thought.
I could shield you from all the pain in the world. I would hold you in the dark and we would feel warm.

He looked away, grimacing.

No,
he thought. He had worked too hard for this. He could not give up his ambitions, not so close to seizing his prize. He would have to play this game a little longer, to tolerate his family for a few more moons or years. But then... then he would strike. Then the throne would be his—and so would Tilla Roper.

Below in the courtyard, Frey Cadigus waited, clad in a burgundy robe and holding his scepter of power. Shari stood at his right side, Lord Herin Blackrose at his left. Before them, all across the cobblestones, five hundred axehands stood in formation—the men whom Leresy would soon rule.

“It’s time,” he whispered.

He took flight and dived toward the courtyard.

From the clock tower above, an iron dragon flew—Nairi Blackrose—and landed beside him. The two dragons, red and gray, stood in the courtyard before the emperor. Plumes of smoke rose between their teeth. They shifted together and stood in human forms, clad in black steel, awaiting their union.

Leresy looked at his father. He looked at the grooved face, the cold eyes, the thin lips. He looked upon this man and he hated him.

He looked aside at Lord Herin Blackrose, soon to be his father-in-law, and shivered.

Like all men of his order, Lord Herin wore black robes, and his left arm ended with an axehead instead of a hand. But unlike the others, Herin Blackrose—as their commander—wore no iron mask. Leresy thought it a pity; if anyone needed to hide his face, it was Herin. The man looked like a dying, furless cat. Herin was completely hairless; not merely bald, but lacking eyebrows and eyelashes too. He had no more teeth than hair; when his lips parted, they revealed bare gums. Wrinkles and boils covered his skin. Leresy could barely believe such a monster had fathered the beautiful Nairi. Lord Herin was a diseased freak, Leresy thought, but he was strong. His eyes blazed like steel in smelters. After the emperor, he was the strongest man in Requiem.