The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

Arberus found her at first light, smiling despite the scowl she turned on him as Makario stitched the cut to her forearm. The bodies of the last valiant Watchmen lay around them, burnt or blasted into a near-unrecognisable state. Hyran sat near by, knees drawn up to his chest and an unfocused cast to his eyes.

  “Come to report a glorious victory, General?” she enquired of Arberus, which made his smile falter a little.

  “Victory is never glorious,” he replied, casting a glance around the grisly field. “But we have one nonetheless. The Iron Watch and the Emperor’s Ravens are no more.”

  “What about the dragoons?” she enquired. “And all those conscripts?”

  “The dragoons were stubborn, the conscripts were not. The Electress is talking to them now. It seems most of their officers had their throats cut last night, and those who didn’t are currently fleeing back up the road to Corvus. A road that now lies open.”

  “Congratulations.” She gritted her teeth as Makario drew the suture tight on her cut. “The great General Arberus cements his reputation. I imagine someone is already planning a statue.”

  “If so, it’s more likely it’ll be of you than me. The army is abuzz with talk of Miss Blood and her selfless courage.”

  “You have Hyran to thank for all this.” She jerked her head at the surrounding corpses, adding inwardly, And Makario to thank for the fact that I’m still here.

  “Even so,” Arberus said, “every revolution requires its heroes. Legends inspire, truth does not.”

  “If you quote your grandmother at me again I swear I’ll shoot you.”

  She watched his smile fade completely and knew any lingering hopes of salvaging their intimacy had gone. Did we ever share more than a purpose? Apparently not.

  She forced a smile of gratitude at Makario as he snipped off the suture and mopped the last of the blood from her cut. “Come along, young man,” the musician said, moving to Hyran and tugging him to his feet. “I’m sure somewhere amongst this rabble someone is cooking an approximation of breakfast.”

  Hyran merely blinked at him as he allowed himself to be guided from the field, empty eyes tracking over the carnage he had helped create.

  “The first taste of battle is always bitter,” Arberus observed. He moved to sit at Lizanne’s side but she rose and turned away, crossing her arms and taking some small sadistic pleasure in allowing the silence to play out to an uncomfortable length.

  “When this is over . . .” he began.

  “You won’t be returning to Feros,” she finished. “Yes, I had already divined that.”

  “Victory in Corvus won’t be the end of this war. An empire that has lasted a thousand years doesn’t just slip easily from tyranny to freedom. Building the republic will be the work of years, decades even.”

  “Republic?” She raised an eyebrow in grim amusement. “Bidrosin’s great vision made flesh, at last. Tell me, just how much sympathy does the Electress have for your cherished beliefs? I’m sure her views on revolutionary philosophy make for a fascinating discussion.”

  “She is committed to victory, as am I. As to what might happen next . . .”

  “She’ll kill you.” Lizanne stepped closer, looking directly into his eyes so there would be no mistaking her certainty. “Once she’s done slaking her thirst for vengeance on the Corvantine nobility, she’ll kill you and anyone else who might pose a threat to her power. To her this empire is just Scorazin on a larger scale. If you think otherwise you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.”

  “If the Electress also considers me a fool then I’ll enjoy the advantage of having been under-estimated.” His gaze was as steady as hers, his tone suddenly hard. “The true revolutionary does not get to wield power. Their role is to ensure power is transferred to those who were once its victims. Leonis used to say that the world we wanted to build would not welcome us, so steeped were we in blood and deceit. I have been doing this all my life, Lizanne. I know what the Electress is, as I know what I am, and so do you.”

  Lizanne dropped her gaze, suddenly weary as the exertions of the previous night bore down on her, demanding sleep. “Everything that happened since I returned to Arradsia has . . . changed me,” she said. “Morsvale, Carvenport, Scorazin, all of it. Like hammer-blows beating me into a new shape. I cannot be who I was, even if I wanted to. I had hoped the same might be true of you.”

  “It is,” she heard him insist softly as she walked away. “But it seems the shape I was beaten into is not the one you want.”

  • • •

  The casualties suffered by what was now being termed “The People’s Freedom Army” during its first major victory amounted to some two and a half thousand dead and wounded. The losses were immediately made good by the addition of the mutinous conscripts and the steady stream of civilian volunteers, a stream that became a flood as they resumed their northward march. A host of willing recruits emerged from every town and village they passed on the Corvus Road, so that within a week the army had risen to over sixty thousand people. The new recruits were a decidedly mixed bunch. Older veterans of previous revolutions marched alongside eager sons and daughters, their zeal fired by years of secret education in radical doctrine. As the march towards Corvus continued Lizanne began to see a partial vindication in the Brotherhood’s faith. It seemed the spark of revolution had met willing tinder after all. However, it soon became apparent that the path to the capital would not be the unopposed victory march the Electress envisaged.

  “Selvurin clansmen,” Arberus said, skewering the ground with a captured sabre during the Electress’s regular evening council. The sabre’s blade was several inches longer than a typical cavalry weapon with a distinctive tassel of eagle feathers dangling from the pommel. “Attacked some Brotherhood scouts in the woods to the west around noon, made off with six heads by the time reinforcements arrived. We only caught one. He didn’t survive questioning.”

  “So Countess Sefka’s relying on northern mercenaries,” the Electress mused, angling her head to inspect the sabre. “Probably paying them by the head.”

  “I thought the northern provinces hated the empire,” Lizanne said.

  “That they do, dear,” the Electress replied. “But there’s always loyalists in any province. A few of the horse clans sided with the crown during the revolutions. Settled old scores and got rich into the bargain. The fact that they’ve turned up so far south might actually be a good sign. Could mean they’ve been driven out of the north, or the Countess is getting desperate.”

  “Desperate or not, they’re a fearsome enemy,” Arberus said. “The finest horsemen in the empire, given to worshipping gods that reward the kin of any who fall in battle. You can be sure we haven’t seen the last of them. We’re having to gather supplies as we move, and I don’t have enough mounted troops to cover every caravan. If they start raiding in earnest it will seriously impede our progress.”

  “Clansmen are hunters,” Varkash said. “Like wolves, or eagles,” he added, nodding at the tassel on the sabre. “Every eagle has a nest. We have but to find it.”

  Lizanne sighed as all eyes in the tent turned to her. “I’ll need a faster horse,” she said.

  • • •

  From the high quality of its tack and comfortable saddle she divined the horse had been captured from a fallen Dragoon officer. It was a dappled-grey stallion several hands taller at the shoulder than her cart-horse and considerably faster. Nevertheless it took her two days to find the main Selvurin camp. She started at the scene of their most recent attack, a raid on a supply caravan that left all the drovers headless and their wagons burnt or empty. She followed the tracks for several miles until they disappeared into dense woodland some ten miles west of the Corvus Road. The clansmen were evidently skilled in concealing their tracks, which made finding them a tortuous business.

  Lizanne rode west at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals to inject Gre
en which allowed her enhanced hearing to catch the distant sound of voices through the trees. She found a number of smaller encampments but steered clear of them, pushing on until the whisper of voices revealed by the Green grew to a steady murmur. As Lizanne drew closer her nose proved more useful than her ears thanks to the rising scent of dung, both horse and human. When it grew into a stench she dismounted and climbed the tallest tree she could find, thin tendrils of rising smoke soon revealing the whereabouts of the clansmen’s den.

  Lizanne checked her timepiece and settled herself as comfortably as she could into the tree’s branches, watching the camp below. In total she estimated this clan to number close to three thousand individuals. They had concealed themselves in a broad clearing deep in the forest. Conical shelters of animal hide clustered around camp-fires as riders came and went. She could also see women at work about the camp and, running between the shelters, a large number of children at play. The Selvurin, it seemed, took their families with them when they went to war. In a circle in the centre of the camp were a number of wooden stakes arranged into a circle, each topped with a round object. Lizanne didn’t need to enhance her vision to know what those objects were.

  Savages, she thought, as she watched the infants play among the impaled heads. Savages with children.

  At the allotted hour she injected a short burst of Blue and slipped into the trance. I see you’ve been busy, she observed to Hyran, taking note of his refashioned mindscape. The swirling carnal mélange had been replaced with what appeared to be the interior of a shop. A tall bank of small drawers rose behind the gleaming oak counter and the words Robian and Sons Fine Spices were painted in mirrored Eutherian on the window. From what she could see of the exterior the shop was situated in the main commercial district of the capital and the street outside busy with people, though they were indistinct, ghostlike wisps.

  My grandfather’s shop, Hyran explained, one of the many drawers opening and the face of an old man rising from the powdery contents. It was a kindly face, but also very sad. He took me in when Ma and Pa were killed. Did his best by me but the Cadre always watching the place didn’t do much for custom. When he died the bailiffs took it all.

  I’m sorry, she said. It seems a . . . pleasant place.

  Smell’s what I remember most. All those different spices mixed together. Haven’t managed to make it yet.

  Memory requires context to be truly vivid. Think about the first time you came here, that’s when your mind formed the dominant impression of this place.

  The shop shimmered around her as Hyran concentrated, the drawers opening to form more powdery images; the kindly old man, this time sinking to his haunches to offer a sweet to a skinny boy. The shimmer stopped and the images faded, leaving behind an aroma that brought a tingle to the nostrils whilst also conveying a sense of comfort.

  Yes, Hyran thought. That’s it. Thank you, miss.

  My pleasure. She summoned a memory of her own: the Selvurin camp and a mental sketch of its location in relation to the army, along with the position of the outlying smaller camps. Tell the general he’ll need to move quickly.

  I will. He asked that you remain in place, to guide the rockets. The Tinkerer should have his devices in a firing position by nightfall.

  The rockets . . . She stilled her whirlwinds as they took on a ragged, distressed appearance. Very well, she told Hyran.

  Are you alright, miss? he asked, meaning his perceptive powers in the trance had improved more than she liked.

  Quite alright, thank you. Please assure the general of my willing co-operation.

  She blinked in the sunlight as the trance faded, her vision soon clearing to reveal the Selvurin camp. The children were still playing amongst the small forest of impaled heads, laughing as children do.

  “Oh bother!” she grunted and began to climb her way down from the tree.

  • • •

  She reined in on the edge of the clearing and waited. Selvurin pickets were not long in detecting her presence, the nearest coming on at full gallop with his sabre drawn only seconds after she appeared. Lizanne let the clansman get within ten feet before blasting him from the saddle with a surge of Black. He connected with the ground in an untidy tumble, Lizanne hearing the crack of at least one broken bone before he came to a halt. His five comrades, who moments before had also been charging towards her at full pelt, dragged their mounts to a swift halt. After exchanging a few shouts of puzzled alarm they began to draw rifles of antique appearance from the leather sheaths on their saddles.

  “Don’t!” Lizanne shouted in her perfect Selvurin. “Unless you wish a coward’s death!”

  The sound of their own language, spoken by a Blood-blessed no less, sufficed to give them pause. Her study of the northern empire had been limited mostly to linguistics but she did possess a rudimentary knowledge of clan customs and traditions, one of which included a lingering attachment to superstitious notions regarding the Blessing.

  “If this rabble has a leader!” she went on. “Bring him forth or let him be forever known as Piss-britches!” She wasn’t entirely sure she had phrased this insult correctly. However, it seemed to carry sufficient gravity for her would-be assailants to respond with the expected glowers, though they made no further move to attack her. One of them growled something to another, who turned his mount around and galloped towards the camp. Lizanne turned her back on the remaining clansmen and waited. She knew them to be an intensely status-conscious people and one so exalted as her did not acknowledge an inferior unless necessity required it.

  It didn’t take long for the clan leader to respond to her challenge. Within minutes a retinue of two dozen riders raised a tall column of dust as they came galloping from the camp. They were led by two men, one young, one old. The younger of the two rode partially in front of the old man who, Lizanne saw, carried a gourd of some kind which he held tight to his chest.

  The pair reined in a short distance from Lizanne, their followers spreading out on either side. She made note of the fact that they had all drawn their sabres. The younger rider was lean almost to the point of thinness with the pale complexion and dark hair typical of the northern provinces. He wore a short beard and moustache waxed into spear-points that contrasted somewhat with the unconstrained chest-length beards of his clansmen. In all other respects, however, his appearance was every inch that of a leader of a horse clan. He was clad in leather britches and vest, arms bare to reveal his scars and a red-silk scarf on his head braided in silver.

  He returned Lizanne’s scrutiny in full before trotting his horse forward and coming to a halt barely six feet away. Unlike his men he hadn’t drawn his sabre, nor did he share their evident trepidation at being confronted by a Blood-blessed. “‘Piss-britches,’ eh?” he asked her in finely spoken Eutherian, grinning a little.

  “I needed to talk to you,” she explained, also slipping into Eutherian.

  “And what would the famous Miss Blood have to say to me, pray tell?” His grin broadened a little as her face betrayed a tic of surprise. “Oh yes, I know your story. We wrung it out of some radical shit-eater a few days ago. He said something about you wreaking justice upon our barbarian souls, before we cut his tongue out, that is.”

  Lizanne resisted the sudden urge to forget her good intentions, kill this savage with a lashing of Black and ride off into the forest. But she could see the other clan-folk gathering to watch this diverting exchange, children chattering excitedly amongst the throng. “You need to leave this place,” she said. “Abandon whatever arrangement you have with Countess Sefka and go home.”

  “Fifty crowns per head,” he said. “That’s our arrangement and so far it’s proving highly lucrative. Can your rebel friends match that? If not, it seems we have little to discuss.”

  He turned and gave a nonchalant wave to the old man, who duly trotted his mount closer. Although he did his best to hide it behind a fierce glower, L
izanne could see he was markedly more nervous of her than his clan leader. It was there in the way his bony hands twitched on the gourd held close to his chest, a gourd she could now see was inscribed all over with runes.

  “This is Tikrut,” the younger man said in Selvurin. “Blood Shaman to the Red Eagle Clan. See his mighty power and tremble, foreign witch.” The sardonic lilt to the clan leader’s voice indicated a less-than-serious attitude to this confrontation, a sense of ritual performed for the sake of appearance.

  The old man managed to maintain his glower as he met Lizanne’s gaze, though his bony neck bulged as he began to speak in a low guttural chant. The words were gibberish to Lizanne’s ears, some form of archaic tribal tongue she suspected no one else present could decipher. Tikrut raised the gourd above his head as he spoke, shaking it back and forth so Lizanne could hear the liquid contents sloshing about.

  “He invokes the Blessing of the gods,” the clan leader said as Tikrut chanted on. “The divine brew is potent, formed of drake blood fermented over the span of centuries and imbued with the gods’ essence.”

  “Really?” Lizanne enquired, refreshing her reserves of Black with the Spider before reaching out to snatch the gourd from the old shaman’s hands. She plucked it out of the air and turned it over in her hands, Tikrut sputtering all the while, this time in Selvurin. “Blaspheming witch! Prepare to burn! The gods will not tolerate so vile an insult . . .”

  He trailed off as Lizanne found a stoppered opening on the underside of the gourd. She pried it open and dipped a finger inside. “This is water,” she said, after tasting the contents. “Fresh too. I expect he refills it quite regularly.” She replaced the stopper and tossed the gourd back to Tikrut. He failed to catch it and the receptacle duly tumbled to the ground, much to the gasping shock of all present, apart from the young clan leader.

  “You useless old bastard,” he told Tikrut as the shaman scrambled from his saddle, fumbling desperately for the holy gourd. Upon grasping it the shaman immediately began his chant once more, sinking to his knees and raising the gourd to the heavens in the hope, Lizanne presumed, the gods might see fit to smite her with a thunderbolt or two.