". . . and the bastard Leerians actually fought with bronze blades. Bronze!" The young nobleman snorted. "Now, Valentina, yours is a soft heart, and perhaps you are unfamiliar with the ways of war. But when a solid steel sword, forged in the best castrum in Aelar, meets a bronze blade forged in some backyard smithie, do you know what happens?"
"Violets," she said.
The nobleman blinked at her, holding his hand halfway toward a dish of roasted sparrows. "Violets?"
"The violets are blooming rather nicely this time of year, aren't they?" Valentina said. "They fill the streets of Aelar, and I can smell them from my window. Talk to me of flowers, not of swords."
He blinked again but nodded, probably thinking her soft in the head. "Splendid violets. Quite fragrant." He grabbed his roasted sparrow, then turned his attention toward his friend at his left, another noble veteran of the war.
With another suitor successfully repelled, Valentina was about to find a way to slink outside when her father began to cough.
Valentina turned toward him. "Father, are you all right? Is your soup too spicy?"
Marcus Octavius was not a man of great appetites. Unlike many of the nobles, he did not indulge on too much wine, too much food, too much gold or fineries. Often he drank only one cup per meal, and he ate just enough to feed his body and not a bite more. Even today, rather than pile his plate high like some of his fellow diners, he had chosen only a bowl of pine nut soup.
"Father!" Valentina said again.
The emperor was turning red, clutching his belly. He tried to speak, unable to, only a rasp leaving his throat.
Lords and ladies leaped to their feet, rushing forth. Men of the Magisterian Guard raced toward their emperor. Marcus collapsed, knocking his bowl over, spreading the soup across the floor—a creamy liquid interspersed with pine nuts.
"He's choking!" Valentina said. "Somebody fetch the physician!" She knelt above him. "Father, please! Father!"
As the diners bustled, calling for a healer, and as Valentina knelt above her father, trying to resuscitate him, the singing of the memento mori rose above the din.
"Food for flies, food for flies!" the old man sang, dancing about with jangling chains. "All we are is food for flies."
For seven days and nights, the emperor lay in his chamber, shivering with fever, vomiting, unable to keep anything down. His flesh seemed to melt away, his eyes to sink into his skull. Everything they fed him, even just dry bread, seemed to toss him into another fit of agony.
Only once did Valentina leave his chambers, to check on Chicken Leg, her dear robin. She found the bird dead in his cage, his meal of pine nuts spilled around him. His lifeless eyes stared at her, and that voice kept echoing in her mind. Food for flies, food for flies!
On the eighth day, the physician judged the position of the stars, gazed into the entrails of a slaughtered fowl, and announced that Marcus would live. Indeed, the emperor felt well enough to sit in the gardens that day, to sip tea and eat bread soaked in milk. That day, Valentina left her father to gaze at the flowers and birds. She walked through the Acropolis, stepping between temples, fortresses, statues, and the towering amphitheater. Finally she made her way to the kennels.
She found Mingo there, huddled among the hounds—his home.
"Hello, Valentina." His voice was soft. All that he had been at the feast—dancing, joking, singing—was gone. He was a different man now, standing straight, eyes sad.
She stepped toward him, rage kindling inside her. "It was the pine nuts. But I saw you taste them. I saw you!"
He nodded, still seeming so sad. "You saw me sip the soup, but did you see me eat the nuts that floated within it? We see what we want to see, child. The Empire is an arena, and we are all actors, singers, gladiators—all performers for a crowd. Some look at me and see a crazy old man, a fool. Some look at you and see a princess, the daughter of an emperor."
"I am the daughter of an emperor!" She was yelling now. She never yelled, but she could not stop herself. The hounds startled and howled.
Mingo shook his sad, wrinkled head, his shaggy hair and beard swaying. He sighed. "Do you know who I am, child?"
"A fool. A slave. A memento mori. A reminder of mortality."
"That is how I appear. Perhaps I should ask: Do you know who I was?"
Valentina bit her lip. She knew this too. And now her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were named Cassius once. Septimus Cassius. A great lord, a rival to my father, a tyrant who sought to slay him, to undo all that he wanted for Aelar."
"A tyrant?" The tufted white eyebrows rose. "No, child. Only a senator. A rich, powerful senator, but just a senator nonetheless, one who loved the Republic of Aelar. One who wept to see Marcus Octavius tear down that ancient Republic, bend the Senate to his will, and build an empire in its stead. One who fought against tyranny. One who fought to maintain the great democracy of Aelar, the democracy that once made us strong." He lowered his head. "One who paid greatly for his fight. One who lost his lands, his titles, his dignity . . . even his daughter."
Now the slave raised his eyes and met her gaze, and she read his unspoken words in them.
"You think . . ." She took a step back. "You think that I'm her, don't you? That's what you meant when you told me your tale of robins and cuckoos. You think I'm your daughter."
The hounds settled, and Mingo stood between them, a tear on his cheek. "Emperor Marcus Octavius has three children. Porcia, cruel and bloodthirsty. Seneca, proud and broken. And a third child, a lost daughter, one whose name is Ofeer, one who's lost in an eastern kingdom of sand. You, Valentina Cassius, were born to different parents. You are my sweetest, youngest child, the only one who survived after Marcus butchered my family. Our families fought—a horrible, devastating war. His wife was pregnant; so was mine. His wife died in the war; so did mine. His own babe perished; mine survived . . . and was stolen. A sweet, pale child—clutched from my nest, taken to his palace, but never forgotten, always loved. I love you, Valentina, and all that I've done here, I've done to protect you, and to protect our beloved Aelar."
"Did you poison him?" Valentina whispered, trembling now.
Footsteps sounded outside the kennels, and she turned to see legionaries marching outside on patrol, red crests rising from their helmets. Chains jangled. When she turned back toward Mingo, she no longer saw the sad man, only a dancing fool again, kicking his hobbled feet and singing of flies.
ATALIA
At dawn we die!
The words echoed in Atalia's ears as dawn rose, as death soared toward her.
The warships unleashed their fury. A hundred boulders, flaming like the sun, rolled across the sky. Iron bolts, longer than she was tall, whistled as they raced over the sea. Thousands of arrows flew, tipped with fire. It was death. It was the fall of lions, the fall of a nation.
We should have surrendered, Atalia thought, staring from the ramparts, frozen. We will die. We will all die.
She snarled.
No. Not yet.
"Stand your ground!" she shouted. "Warriors of Zohar, stand—"
The inferno slammed against them.
Atalia screamed.
A flaming boulder crashed into the merlon beside her. Fire blazed across her armor. Bricks shattered. Shards of stone flew through the air, jabbing her. One scraped across her cheek, and her blood spurted. Dozens of other boulders crashed into the city walls, chipping bricks. An entire merlon cracked and fell to the courtyard, crushing a man below. Atalia clung to a second merlon, her legs swaying, and above she heard the whistles—deafening, louder than a thousand eagles. The ballistae's projectiles flew overhead—jagged iron shards, the talons of gods. They arched down into the city. They slammed into homes, shattering walls, tearing through roofs, tearing through men and women, mothers and children. With them flew the arrows, aflame, driving into roofs, gardens, people, burning, spreading their fire through Gefen.
They'll slay us before they land a single man ashore, Atalia thought with horror.
Horror. Yes, that was what she felt now. No more bloodlust. No more pride, no more excitement for the fight. Just that terror, all-consuming, flowing through her.
How did this happen? How can this be? This has to be a dream, just a nightmare, just—
"Fire your arrows!" The voice roared beside her, deep, powerful, rich with command. "Zohar, fire!"
Atalia looked toward that booming voice, and she saw him there on the crackled battlements—Jerael Sela. But gone was the kindly, gentle giant she had known, a father who played with his children and sang while lighting holy candles. Before her stood a warrior, a bear of a man, taller than any other soldier on the wall, his graying hair wild, his beard white against his tanned face, his eyes blazing. He tugged back his bowstring, an arrow nocked.
Atalia sucked in a deep breath.
Her fingers trembled, and the terror still shuddered through her chest, but she managed to grab an arrow from her quiver. She lit the tip from a brazier on the wall. She nocked and drew, and around her a thousand other warriors did the same.
They fired their arrows.
"Now you will taste Zoharite iron," Atalia hissed between clenched teeth.
The thousand arrows rose skyward, then arched down toward the fleet in the harbor. Many arrows missed their targets, sizzling into the water. Many others shattered against the enemy hulls and shields. But some found their marks. One arrow hit a folded sail, and the fire spread across the canvas. Another arrow drove between two legionaries' shields and slammed into a man, knocking him overboard.
Again the inferno flew from the ships.
Trebuchets twanged below upon the decks, hurling boulders coated with burning tar. One boulder slammed into the wall beneath Atalia, and chips of limestone rained onto the beach. Another boulder sailed overhead, and Atalia turned to see it slam into a home in the city, crushing the wall, and screams rose from within. More boulders crashed into the city. A ballista's bolt—a chunk of jagged iron as large as a man—slammed into another nearby merlon, shattering it. The defender behind the merlon screamed as the iron drove into his chest, knocking him down to the courtyard. More boulders slammed into the walls. More Zoharites cried out and fell, burning, bones crushed.
The battle spun around Atalia.
Her breath rose to a pant. Her heart felt ready to escape her chest. She drew another arrow. She tried to nock it, but her fingers trembled too madly, and it clattered down and fell to the courtyard. More boulders flew. Arrows streaked all around her, whistling through the crenels. One scraped across her thigh, and she cried out.
I'm going to die. I can't do this. I can't. I—
A scream rose. One of her soldiers, the men she had commanded in battle, clutched an arrow shaft in his chest. He fell and shattered against the courtyard below, cracking his skull, leaking his innards. Another boulder slammed into the rampart only a foot away, roaring fire, scattering stones. A brick slammed into a soldier's face—a boy Atalia had often played dice with—shattering his teeth, crushing the skull. Another man raced across the wall, burning, crying out for his mother. Men stood at arrowslits below, but flaming barrels soon flew, spilling blazing oil through the slits, burning the archers, sending them crashing down like comets.
"I . . . we have to fight," Atalia whispered. "We . . ."
She fumbled for another arrow. She managed to nock it but was shaking too badly. Her arrow whizzed skyward, as if she were hunting birds, then plunged toward the beach and embedded itself harmlessly in the sand.
And then Atalia saw them.
Thousands of them.
They were rowing landing craft, small rowboats, twenty legionaries in each. The vessels moved forth from the quinquereme ships like baby spiders leaving their mothers. The legionaries chanted as they rowed, and men beat war drums.
Boom. Boom.
They rowed through the battle. Arrows rained, but the legionaries held scutum shields over their heads and to their sides, forming a shell of wood, leather, and bronze. And still the drums beat.
Boom. Doom. Doom.
I can't do this.
Boom.
I'm not the warrior I thought I was.
Doom.
Tears stung Atalia's eyes.
Boom. Doom.
"We come, we see, we kill!" rose the cries from below, the voices of demons, of endless cruelty. "Hail Aelar! Knock down the walls! Slay the men and capture the women! The eagles fly!"
A fog seemed to cover Atalia. A ringing rose in her ear, overpowering even the drums and whistling ballistae and roaring stones. Fire crackled behind her, and smoke stung her nostrils, and still those boulders flew, crashing into houses behind her. Then ringing. Just ringing, and a voice, and a hand grabbing her shoulder.
"Atalia!" She saw her father's face, covered in ash, bleeding. "Atalia, fight them!"
She blinked. She looked around. Many of her soldiers had fallen, but many still lived.
Atalia clenched her fists.
If I die, I die with pride. A lioness. Fighting.
"Shoot them down!" Atalia shouted, voice hoarse, torn and bleeding. "Aim for the landing craft! Shoot them down!"
She could barely see through the smoke. Crimson and black ash covered the sky, hiding the sun, casting red shadows over the land. She managed to steady her fingers, to fire another arrow.
Hundreds of other Zoharites fired around her. The arrows sailed toward the landing craft, but the legionaries kept rowing, encased in metal and wood. Their shields locked into place above and to their sides. The arrows could not penetrate them. The first Aelarians reached the beaches, and the arrows whizzed down, slamming against shields, and still the legionaries advanced. The enemy spread across the beach for the entire width of Gefen. The arrows kept flying. Several pierced the shields and lodged there, doing the legionaries no harm. Most glanced off the shields and hit the sand, fizzling away.
"Shoot them dow—" Atalia began.
A flaming barrel slammed into the ramparts, spilling burning oil.
Atalia leaped back from the flames. The fire raced across the wall. More warriors of Zohar screamed and fell. One woman kept firing arrows even as she burned. Below along the coast, the legionaries began circling the city, moving in centuries, each unit encased in shields, holding their spears before them.
"Oil." Atalia raised her voice to a howl. "Oil! Bring oil! Bring wood! Let's burn—"
She screamed.
A boulder slammed into the merlon where she stood, shattering it.
Atalia fell.
She tumbled off the wall, stones battering her, fire raging across her arm. She reached up, falling, knowing she was going to die. The wall crumbled around her, and—
He caught her.
Her father's strong arm reached down, and his hand wrapped around her wrist.
He pulled her back onto the wall. Half the crenellations had cracked or collapsed. So many warriors lay dead around them, pierced, crushed, burning. Hundreds lay dead in the courtyard below. Faces she knew. Faces now caved in, melted by the fire.
And still the enemy advanced, circling the city.
"I . . . I thought we could hold them back," Atalia whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. "I thought I was a warrior. That I could slay them. I'm a coward. I'm weak. I'm so scared, Father. I'm so scared."
Jerael clutched her shoulder and glared into her eyes. "You are a daughter of Zohar. You are a daughter of Sela. You are my daughter, and you are strong. Fight them! With arrows, with oil, with pride. We still fight!"
Zoharites were laying down slats of wood along the stairs that led up the wall. Others shoved up cauldrons of bubbling oil. Some shoved the pots with gloves; others pushed with bare hands even as their skin sizzled, even as they howled with pain. And still the flaming barrels and bolts flew overhead, slamming into homes. The city burned.
Atalia still shook. She could not stop shedding tears. She wanted to run, to hide in the city, to escape to the little home her family kept within these walls. She wanted t
o crawl into the cellar, to hold her knees, to weep for the shame of it. For not only the city shattered this day, but also herself, who she had thought she was.
I'm so scared. I'm not a warrior. But I will fight nonetheless. Even as I tremble, even as I weep, even if I die before killing a man . . . I will fight.
She scurried over patches of fire and bricks toward battlements that still stood. She tore off strips from the tunic beneath her armor, wrapped them around her hands, and shoved one of the cauldrons of oil. Together with another soldier—a gruff old man with a scarred cheek—she tilted the cauldron over the wall.
Arrows flew, slamming into the cauldron. One arrow found the scarred soldier, and he cried and fell. Atalia grimaced and shoved the cauldron with both hands, struggling against the weight, shielded from the arrows.
The oil sizzled down toward the beach.
It washed over the shields of legionaries, and the men screamed.
Atalia gave the cauldron another great shove, and it tumbled off the wall and slammed into the shields below, knocking down Aelarians. At once she loaded an arrow and fired, hitting a legionary.
The man fell, burnt and pierced with her arrow.
I killed a man. For the first time, I killed.
Atalia cried out in triumph.
"I killed a man! I killed, I—"
She could not even complete her sentence. She doubled over, shivered, and gagged, losing the contents of her stomach onto the wall.
I killed a man.
Fresh tears fell.
The wall shook as more projectiles hit it, and the screams rose behind her—the screams of the city people, mothers and children and elders trapped under rubble.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 12