A Legacy of Light (The Dragon War, Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Erry, your mouth!" Mae scolded, then turned back toward Tilla. "Oh, Tilla, did you… really?"

  "No, no!" Tilla held up her hands. "I just kissed him, that's all." She sighed. "It was the night before we were drafted. On the beach by Ralora Cliffs."

  "So…" Erry said slowly, "he didn't know where to stick it."

  Tilla roared and shoved her, and Mae squealed, and soon all three were shoving one another and laughing.

  In the distance, the clock tower of Castra Luna chimed. Tilla fell silent, cocked her head, and listened. The tower was far, and soldiers still talked around her, but she managed to count twelve chimes.

  "Midnight," she said and stretched. "This has, quite officially, been the longest day of my life. What say we get some sleep, girls? I have a feeling tomorrow will be just as long."

  Tilla wriggled out of her new armor, breathing in relief as her body was freed from the tight, hard leather. She grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around her, and lay down. The blanket stank, and mold spread across it; at once Tilla's skin and throat began to itch. And yet she was so tired, sleep tugged at her at once. All around, the other soldiers were lying down to sleep too, pressed together like snakes in a pit.

  "Goodnight, Erry," Tilla whispered. "Goodnight, Mae."

  The two were already sleeping beside her, wrapped in their own moldy, tattered blankets. Ignoring her itching skin, Tilla closed her eyes and slept.

  "Wake up, girls!" shouted a voice. "Damn it—guard duty! We ain't staying up all night waiting for you."

  Tilla opened her eyes, blinked, and vaguely heard the distant clock tower chime again. Was it morning already? No, it was still dark. She counted only a single chime.

  "It's one in the morning!" Erry mumbled beside her, wrapped in her blanket. "Frothy griffin snot, who's making that racket? By the emperor's hairy arse, I'm going to cut out their tongue."

  Tilla rose, rubbed her eyes, and saw a young recruit—he wore no insignia upon his leather armor—standing at the tent entrance. She had seen his face in Cadport—he was a grocer's son—but she couldn't remember his name.

  "Come on!" the young man called. "You girls going to get up, or do I have to walk around kicking?"

  Tilla rose to her feet, realized she was wearing nothing but her underclothes, and wrapped her blanket around her.

  "What are you on about?" she demanded. "Get lost before I do my own kicking."

  He pointed at her. "Wear your damn armor, not a blanket. This is the Black Rose Phalanx, right? It's your guard-duty shift. You walk around the camp palisade three times, then wake up Red Blade Phalanx." He grumbled. "There are bloody siragis patrolling all over this place, so don't think of weaseling out. They got punishers. Now put on some damn armor!"

  With that, the grocer's son turned and left the tent.

  Bloody siragis. Tilla cursed. She had heard of these soldiers before; veterans back in Cadport would mutter about them. The sons of commoners, they wore three red stars upon their armbands, denoting several years of service. The siragis didn't have the noble blood for command; they were the officers' pet brutes. Tilla's body still ached from the wounds Nairi, a young woman like herself, had given her. She did not relish a confrontation with the siragis, hardened warriors.

  "All right, you heard him!" Tilla said and clapped her hands. "Into your armor, grab your swords—quickly."

  A moment later, the Black Roses emerged from their tent, tugging on boots and buckling swords to waists. When Tilla blinked in the night, she saw a men's phalanx outside their tent. Its soldiers were dropping bulging sacks; they thudded onto the ground.

  "What the Abyss are those?" Tilla demanded.

  The young grocer scowled. "Cannonballs," he said. "You carry them around the palisade."

  "We what?"

  "Three walkarounds!" he said, then showed her his arm; a welt rose across it. "If you drop your sack, the bloody siragis burn you. The bastards are patrolling all over the place."

  His phalanx, ninety-nine young men of Cadport, turned and limped back to their tent, rubbing their shoulders and cursing. Ninety-nine sacks lay on the ground.

  "Oh, piss and blood!" Erry said, trying to lift a sack. "Thing weighs more than I do."

  Tilla peered into a sack. It held three cannonballs, each one nearly as large as her head. She lifted the sack with both hands. She grunted, slung it across her back, and nearly collapsed. The sack must have indeed weighed more than Erry. The other Black Roses were lifting their own sacks and cursing.

  When Tilla stared ahead at the palisade, she saw the siragis standing there, watching. There were three of them, tall and burly men in black steel. Upon their arms, their three red stars gleamed in the torchlight. Their punishers crackled in their hands. Tilla shuddered. These men craved to burn flesh; she felt their bloodlust like heat waves.

  "I can't… carry this!" Mae said, wobbling under her sack. Her sword swung between her legs like a tail.

  "Oh, come on!" Tilla said and began walking, the sack across her back. "Three loops and we can get back to sleep. Black Rose! Follow me. Three, two, one!"

  She began to march, gritting her teeth. Her back screamed under the weight. Her boots drove deep into mud. She reached the palisade that surrounded the camp, hefted the sack, and began her first loop. Her fellow Black Roses groaned and cursed and walked behind her.

  "This isn't fair!" Mae said, jaw clenched as she trudged forward. "Why do we have to carry the same weight as the boys? They should make it lighter for the girls."

  Erry spat and glared. "Dog dung. I can carry just as much as any boy."

  Mae moaned. "Why do we need to carry cannons balls on patrol anyway? It's not like we even have cannons here! What, if an enemy attacks, are we to toss these balls at them?"

  "You could just whine them to death," Erry said. The poor slight girl—the smallest one in the Black Rose—was wobbling and barely trudging forward. "Shag-a-dog, these things are heavy."

  "Language!" Mae said, then squealed as she slipped.

  Tilla could not guess the diameter of the palisade, nor how long it took to complete the first round. All she knew was: By the time they started their second round, her legs howled with agony, her toes felt ready to crack, and her spine creaked. She had to rest. She had to stop for just a moment—to catch her breath, to find some water, to let her heartbeat slow.

  She paused for just a moment, let the sack fall, and wiped sweat off her brow.

  Shadows leaped.

  A siragi, burly and clanking in armor, lunged toward her. His punisher lashed out. Tilla cursed and leaped back, trying to dodge the weapon, but was too slow. The punisher drove into her side, and lightning shot across her. She screamed.

  "Keep moving!" the soldier barked and pulled his punisher back, leaving Tilla's armor smoking. "Damn it, you stop again, I'll burn every last inch of skin off your flesh."

  Tilla gasped and shook. "I—"

  He raised his punisher again.

  Heart thudding and fingers trembling, Tilla grabbed the sack of cannons balls, hefted it over her back, and began her second patrol.

  Behind her, the other Black Roses trudged along, no longer speaking. Tilla heard only grunting, wheezing, and the odd whimper. She wanted to talk to her friends, but had no breath for words. She kept walking, step by step, inch by inch. All around in the camp, the other troops slept in their tents. Tilla envied them more than she had ever envied anyone else. Sleep—pure, beautiful sleep—was now her greatest lost love, greater than Rune, greater than her father, greater than home.

  By the time she finished her second round, she was limping. Her back twisted, and her shoulders felt ready to dislocate. Sweat drenched her, and her throat blazed with thirst; she could not remember the last time she had drunk. It felt like every bone in her feet had cracked. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw the others looking the way she felt; their faces were pale, their hair damp with sweat, their lips tightened.

  She wanted to rest, but the siragis raised their punish
ers. Tilla grunted and began her third round.

  Pain.

  Pain leaped through her bones and ground her spine.

  Pain twisted her feet, clutched at her chest, and burned through her lungs.

  Behind her, she heard a soldier fall, then smelled smoke as punishers burned flesh. Tilla turned to help the girl rise; punishers thrust her way too, and Tilla screamed. She kept walking, sack slung over her back. Step by step. Inch by inch.

  Think only about every new step, she told herself, sweat blinding her eyes. Don't think about anything else; just the next step, one after the other, and it'll be over.

  When finally the nightmare ended and the Black Rose completed its third round, Tilla's head spun. She dropped her sack to the ground, doubled over, and felt fire racing through her bones. The other Black Roses gathered around her, bedraggled and drenched in sweat.

  "Come on, girls," Tilla said and wiped her brow. "Let's drag these sacks to the next phalanx and get some sleep."

  Finally—it must have been close to two in the morning—Tilla lay back in her moldy blanket. She was too tired to even itch now. Everything hurt. Vaguely, she saw the other Black Roses collapse around her.

  There are still a few hours until morning, she thought. If I can only get a good, solid five or six hours of sleep, I…

  Her thoughts trailed off.

  Sleep welcomed her into a deep, black embrace.

  "On your feet!" The shout pierced the night. "Black Rose Phalanx—inspection! Form ranks!"

  Tilla blinked. Her muscles cramped. Her bones ached. Somebody was shouting at the tent entrance. When Tilla rubbed her eyes, she thought that she saw Nairi there, a torch in her hand. Darkness still covered the world.

  "Hairy horse dung," Erry cursed at her side, sitting up. The clock tower began to chime in the distance, and Erry counted on her fingers, then cursed. "It's only four in the morning!"

  Nairi was still shouting. "Out, Black Roses—morning inspection! Move!"

  The recruits stood up and shivered. Tilla's teeth chattered. It felt cold enough to freeze liquor.

  "Armor!" Nairi screamed. "Swords! Move!"

  The Black Roses moved in a daze, strapping on armor with numb fingers. Swords rattled and pale, numbed feet thrust into boots. They stumbled out into the darkness, ninety-nine souls half frozen, eyes blurred and breath fogging. Outside the tent, they formed ranks and stood shivering.

  Nairi stared at them in disgust. Her torch crackled in her hand.

  "Pathetic," she said and spat. "If we were under attack, you'd be dead by now." She began to pace along the lines, staring at each recruit as if staring at flies upon her dinner plate. "Buckles unstrapped. Boots covered in mud. Half of you are missing your helmets. Not a single sword is oiled." Her voice rose to a howl. "You are a disgrace!"

  Standing behind Tilla, Erry muttered under her breath. "That woman needs a few cannonballs dropped onto her head."

  Nairi did not hear, but kept pacing along the lines, cursing.

  "Not one of you is properly armed and ready. I thought of letting you eat dinner today. I thought of letting you sleep a full five hours next night." She shouted so loudly her face turned red. "You will eat nothing, and I will let you sleep only three hours next night, and this will continue until you can pass morning inspection!"

  Erry muttered again. "Next night? Morning? Tonight? I have no idea when's what and who's who. Is it morning or night now? Bloody stars."

  "Shh!" Tilla said; Nairi was marching back toward them.

  "Back into your tent!" the lanse shouted. "You have one minute. I want to see a proper inspection now—boots shining and swords oiled. Go, go!"

  Nairi waved her torch, showering sparks and goading the recruits back into the tent. Outside, the lanse counted down the seconds. Inside, the recruits rummaged through the chest for oil. Finally—it must have been several minutes—they stumbled back outside.

  "Second inspection!" Nairi shouted. "You are late. You have failed. You will not sleep for two more nights. Go, back inside! One minute. Again!"

  Tilla sighed.

  With pain and darkness and bitter cold, her second day at Castra Luna began.

  KAELYN

  She entered his chamber, her fingertips tingling and her throat tight. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and spoke softly.

  "Valien?" Her voice shook. "Valien, it's me."

  He sat hunched before a hearth, his back to her. The firelight outlined his form but left him in shadow. He said nothing. He did not move. He could as well have been a statue.

  Kaelyn sighed. Valien was in one of his moods again. Lately these dark spells had been coming more frequently. When they hit, Valien could brood here for hours, eating little, drinking much, and try as she might, Kaelyn could shine no light into his darkness.

  It was a small room, hardly the chamber of a great warrior. In the stories Kaelyn's father told, the cruel Valien Eleison sat upon a throne of bones, commanded a hall of demons, and drank from goblets of children's blood. But this chamber was no larger than Kaelyn's own. Half the shelves bore books: ancient bestiaries, histories, and epic poems. The other shelves bore jugs of the spirits he drank, overpowering rye that made Kaelyn's eyes water and Valien's memories fade.

  In Kaelyn's chamber, she kept a painting of her mother, the dearest woman she had known. Valien too had lost someone, yet no memories of that woman were allowed in this chamber. No paintings. No mementos. Just mentioning Marilion, his fallen wife, was enough to send Valien so deep into darkness he would not emerge for days.

  "Valien," she tried again. "We must discuss the boy."

  Still facing the fire, Valien grunted. "He is not who I thought he was."

  Kaelyn gasped. "Valien! You said he's the spitting image of King Aeternum. You said—"

  "I know what I said." His voice was raspier than ever, the death croak of a hanging man. He turned toward her, eyes red in the firelight. "He is the flesh and blood of Aeternum, that much is true. But he's not who I thought he was. He's not strong like his father. He's not brave. He's not wise." Valien grumbled. "The boy is a fool."

  Kaelyn sighed. "He is young."

  "So are you." Valien reached for a mug and took a swig of rye. "You're eighteen. You're his age, or only a year older." He snorted. "I was eighteen when I first joined the Legions, then the knighthood soon after. Yet this one…" He drank again. "Rune Brewer is nothing but a spoiled, soft city boy."

  "He's not yet been hardened," Kaelyn agreed. "But I traveled with him for ten days. He knew where he was going. He stayed with me." She took a step forward and held Valien's shoulder. "That shows some strength. He will learn. Teach him."

  Valien leaped to his feet so violently he knocked his chair back. It clanged to the ground, and Kaelyn started.

  "The boy will not learn." Valien paced the chamber, teeth bared, face red in the firelight. "The boy brought us death and misery from the first day. I was wrong, Kaelyn. I was wrong to think he could bring the people hope."

  He brought his mug to his lips and drank deeply. His cup held strong spirits—Kaelyn had tried a sip once and nearly choked—yet Valien drank down this liquid fire like water.

  "Valien!" Kaelyn said. She stepped toward him, held his arm, and lowered the mug from his lips. "Valien, look at me. Please. Listen to me."

  He looked at her. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. In them Kaelyn saw his pain, his memories, and his loss.

  When he looks at me, she knew, he sees her. She too was eighteen. She was my age when she died. When he looks at me, he sees his wife. When he looks at Rune, he sees the babe he saved while she died.

  He panted, breath raw, and Kaelyn embraced him.

  He needs me now, she thought. He needs me more than he needs Rune. He needs me more than his memories.

  "It's all right, Valien," she whispered into his ear as she held him. "Don't lose hope now. We have more hope than ever before." She touched his cheek. "And I'm with you, as I've been for two years now. I fly at your side
—through fire, light, or blood, whichever will fall upon us."

  You are weary, she added silently. You are broken. And you are drunk. But you are our leader, and you are the greatest man I've known. And you will lead us home.

  He wrapped his arms around her, great arms that even now, even here, made Kaelyn feel safe and small; each of those arms was nearly as wide as her body. She laid her head against his chest and felt his heart beat against her cheek.

  "I cannot guarantee that he will live," Valien said. "If once more we face the fire, and I must choose between him and another… I cannot guarantee his life."

  Kaelyn looked up at him. Those old ghosts circled in his eyes like crows around a gallows tree.

  "I know," she whispered. "He might die. So might the rest of us. For now, let him be a beacon of hope to the people. Let him be a torch in the shadow my father cast upon this land." She gave him a twisted smile. "Am I not the same? I'm the daughter of the emperor, a voice rising in defiance. Am I too not a symbol for your uprising?"

  He grabbed her arms so roughly that she gasped.

  "You are more than a symbol, Kaelyn." He snarled at her. "You are a bright blade. You are a lioness. You are—"

  "—the daughter of Emperor Frey Cadigus," she said. "I am a statement and a banner of rebellion. Rune will be one too. You lead us, Valien Eleison, and you will lead us to victory. But the people… the people will rally around Rune." It was her turn to snarl. "I fly at your right-hand side. Let Rune fly at your left. Together—the last knight of Requiem, the daughter of Cadigus, and the son of Aeternum—we will topple this regime, kill my father, and place Rune on the throne."

  Valien turned away from her. He walked to the hearth, placed his great hand—wide as a bear paw—against the mantel. He looked into the flames, head lowered.

  "If I have to choose again, Kaelyn… if I…"

  His voice died, and Kaelyn felt her eyes water. Valien rarely spoke about that night, but Kaelyn had heard the tales whispered in countless taverns and halls. Seventeen years ago, when Frey Cadigus had stormed the capital and slain the royal family, Valien had fought him; he still bore the scar of Frey's blade across his chest. That night, Kaelyn knew, Frey had given him a choice. Valien had but moments to flee before more of Frey's troops swarmed the palace—just long enough to save the babe, the last heir of Aeternum… or to save Marilion, his young wife.