A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) (20 page)

This was a force to finally
slaughter every last resistor.

At the head of this army, a
black triangle of dragons flew like an arrowhead, and another shiver
ran through Tilla.

"The emperor," she
whispered, "and the Axehand Order."

They still flew a league away,
but Tilla could make out Frey Cadigus, a great golden dragon, flying
at their lead. Around him flew the Axehand Order, his fanatic
warrior-priests. They wore black armor bristly with blades, and
axeheads shone upon their stumps. They shrieked to the sky, hailing
their lord, worshiping him as their god.

"Five hundred axehands fly
here," Tilla whispered, "and they frighten me more than the
fifty thousand legionaries behind them."

She hovered in place, watching
as the northern army swallowed the forest under their shadow, roared
their arrival, and descended into the camp. For the past few days,
Shari had ordered troops to tear down thousands of trees north of the
ruins, carving a great clearing. Now the northern host descended
here in a storm of wings, an inferno of flame, and a cacophony of
howls and roars and grunts. Dragons shifted into men. Legionaries
took formations, tens of thousands forming lines and squares. The
Axehand swept between them as ghosts, hidden within black robes and
hoods. A great tent rose, its walls bedecked with spirals; the
emperor strode into it.

Tilla descended, shifted into
human form, and returned to her tent.

She stared into her small
mirror.

A pale woman stared back, her
dark eyes cold, her smooth black hair cut neatly, falling just above
her chin. She knew that many called her face icy, the face of a
statue. Her townsfolk had whispered this in Cadport, back when Tilla
had lived as a commoner. Today her troops whispered it; she could
hear them. They said her face and heart were carved of ice. They
said her eyes were stone marbles, devoid of life, pity, or any
feeling.

Yet they did not see her
nightmares. They did not see her heart. And today… today that
heart twisted with fear. That heart was not carved of ice; the ice
coursed through her veins and belly.

"When I joined the
Legions," she whispered to her reflection, "I vowed to
banish all fear from me. Yet today I'm more afraid than ever."

She reached to the small box she
kept on her table. Her fingers shook, but she took a deep breath and
opened the box.

Her eyes stung.

She pulled out a seashell
necklace.

"Damn it," she
whispered, eyes dampening.

She caressed the seashells,
listening to them chink. It was her one memento of Cadport. It was
her one memory of her lowborn roots, of a ropemaker's daughter too
poor to eat dinner many nights.

"It's my only memory of
Rune," she whispered.

He had collected these
seashells, strung them together, and given her this gift on her
fourteenth birthday. Five years had passed since then, and Tilla had
a sword now, fine armor, and silver in her purse, yet she kept this
humble necklace.

It's
the most precious thing I own,
she thought.

She placed the necklace back
into her box and closed her eyes.

"Oh Rune," she
whispered. "Why did you do this? Why did you fall to evil?
Now the Legions muster… and they will break you."

Her eyes stung. She knew what
they'd do to him. Frey Cadigus would shatter Rune's bones, flay his
skin, but leave him alive. The emperor would parade his trophy
across the capital, letting all hear Rune scream, then finally—after
days or moons or even years—he would allow Rune the mercy of death.

"Why, Rune?" Tilla
whispered, clutching the box. "Why did you have to betray your
kingdom? Why did you let the Resistance turn you against Requiem?"
Her fingers shook. "Now I will have to hurt you, Rune. Now I
will have to fight you. You could have stopped this. You forced me
to do this."

Her tent flap opened behind her.

At the sound, Tilla spun around,
clutching her punisher. Her troops were never to barge into her
tent; she would burn anyone who did.

Her snarl died on her lips, and
she released her punisher. A new gush of fear flooded her.

Two axehands stood at her tent
entrance.

Their black robes draped across
them, but the sleeves were short enough to reveal their deformity:
axe blades strapped to their left stumps, the very blades they
themselves had severed their hands with. Their hoods cast deep
shadows, but Tilla caught hints of their iron masks; those masks were
bolted on to the flesh, impossible to remove. Around their waists,
they displayed the tools of their trade: pincers, needles, and blades
for torturing their enemies.

They
will use these on Rune,
Tilla thought.
They'd
use them on me if they knew I still cared for him.

She
slammed her fist against her chest, struggling to hide her trembling.

"Hail the red spiral!"
she said.

One of the axehands spoke, his
voice a hiss behind his mask, an inhuman sound.

"You are Tilla Siren. You
will accompany us. His holiness, the great God of Dragons, will
speak with you. Follow."

They reached out their right
hands. Their fingers were scarred and wrinkled as if dipped in acid,
and Tilla shuddered.

They
chopped off their left hands to prove their loyalty,
she thought.
What
did Frey demand they do to their right hands?

She took a deep breath, clutched
her sword, and followed them outside.

They shifted into dragons. They
flew over the camp; a hundred thousand troops drilled below them. As
they dived toward the emperor's tent, Tilla's heart twisted, and
smoke spurted from her nostrils.

Stars,
he knows,
she thought.
Somehow
Frey knows about the seashell necklace. He knows I grew up with
Rune.
Her
scales clattered.
He'll
have me tortured and killed.

Yet
what could she do? She could not flee; they would catch her. All
she could do was fly with the axehands, speak with the emperor… and
beg.

They landed outside the
emperor's tent. It rose like a mansion before her, black walls
thudding in the wind. A hundred axehands surrounded the tent, their
black robes swaying like ghosts at midnight.

Tilla shifted back into human
form, and an axehand opened the flap to Frey's tent, revealing
shadows.

"Enter," the dark
priest hissed, beckoning with his blade.

Tilla raised her chin, squared
her shoulders, and sucked in her breath.

Strength,
Tilla,
she told herself.
Always
be strong. Show no weakness. Weakness is death.

She stepped into the darkness.

The tent was large and bare.
Ten dragons could have stood in here, but Tilla saw only a table, two
chairs, and one man.

Frey Cadigus, Emperor of
Requiem, stood sharpening a dagger, rubbing stone and blade together.
He stood in profile to her, staring at his blade, as if he hadn't
noticed her enter. Tilla had never seen him up close before. He was
a tall man, and his pauldrons flared out from wide shoulders. His
armor was meticulous, the black plates lines with golden dragons,
bolted together into a second skin. He wore no helm today. His face
was cold and hard, the nose hooked, the brow high. Grooves framed
his thin lips.

More than his blade, his armor,
or his cruel mouth, his eyes frightened Tilla. When they turned to
stare at her, they were cold, hard, and penetrating as swords.

Tilla saluted, slamming fist to
chest.

He returned the salute, his eyes
digging into her—into her mind, her heart, her oldest secrets.

"Lanse Tilla Siren,"
the emperor said. "Tilla of Cadport. My daughter speaks of you
often." He gestured at the table. "Sit."

When Tilla stepped closer to the
table and chairs, she sucked in her breath. She felt the blood leave
her face.

What she'd first taken for wine
jugs were actually glass jars. Inside each vessel floated a head,
its mouth open in a silent scream.

Frey studied her. "Do they
frighten you, child?"

Tilla tightened her lips and
sat.

"No, Commander," she
said and met his gaze.

A
frightened child would die today,
she thought.
A
soldier, heart hardened, will live.

Frey
still stood. He caressed one of the jars; inside floated the head of
a child, her hair long and braided, her eyes still wide with fear.

"The Aeternum Dynasty used
to rule in splendor," Frey said. "They governed in halls
of marble, harps, and starlight." He snorted. "They were
weak. They were soft. They sang music and drank wine in their halls
while our enemies mustered. They prayed to the stars as griffins,
wyverns, and phoenixes slaughtered our people." He caressed a
second jar; the head floating inside looked eerily like Rune. "Look
at them now, lanse. Look what their weakness brought them."

Tilla stared. Bile rose in her
throat. By the stars…

"The… Aeternum family,"
she whispered.

Rune's
family.

Frey gazed at the jars as if
lost in thought. "I take them with me always. I sleep by their
side. I dine with them on my table. Do you know why, lanse?"

Tilla raised her chin. "To
remember."

He barked a laugh. "Yes.
To remember. To remember their weakness. To remember their
punishment. To remember why we fight." He nodded and met her
gaze. "My daughter speaks highly of you. She says you serve
the red spiral well. She also says… that you knew an Aeternum."

Finally he sat too. He leaned
forward in his seat and stared at her. The jars rose upon the table
between them. The severed heads seemed to stare at Tilla too.

"I knew Relesar in
Cadport," Tilla said, and her insides twisted. Her voice
softened. "He was called Rune then."

She
stared at the jars.
Rune's
parents and siblings.
Tilla's throat tightened, and under the table, she twisted her
fingers together. She could imagine Rune's head joining the others,
staring at her with dead eyes, begging her. Tilla had to suck in her
breath and grind her teeth to stop her eyes from watering.

"Tell me about him,"
said the emperor. "Tell me about our enemy. But do not tell me
about Relesar Aeternum. I hear stories of Relesar all day from a
thousand men—Relesar the brutal warrior, or Relesar the frightened
pup, or Relesar the figurehead dancing to Valien's flute. I hear
only stories. I hear men brag and boast, and I hear men whisper in
fear." He leaned closer across the table. "Do not tell me
about the heir of a fallen dynasty. Tell me about Rune. Tell me
about the boy you knew."

Tilla swallowed, wanting to
flee, wanting to vanish, wanting anything but this.

Stars,
Rune, why did you have to join the Resistance? Why didn't you just
run?

"He grew up thinking he was
a mere brewer," Tilla said, and now her eyes stung. "He
never spoke against the Regime. He never spoke of the lost days of
Aeternum. He did not know of his heritage until the Resistance found
him. He was just a commoner. He was my friend."

Those days returned to her, so
powerful she could barely breathe. In her mind, she walked along the
beach with him again, collecting seashells under the sun, swimming
among the waves, and laughing and telling stories. And she
remembered that last night. She could feel his embrace and kiss
again.

"And yet," Frey said.
"And yet… he rose against us. He flew against this very
fortress. He slaughtered hundreds here—hundreds of youths from his
own town."

Tilla
nodded. "I know," she said softly. "And I hate him
for it. And I fought him that day. We locked swords in the clock
tower." She looked again at the jars, then raised her eyes and
met the emperor's gaze. "But Commander, I believe that he did
not choose this fight. I believe that Valien Eleison poisoned his
mind. I believe that the Resistance kidnapped him, forced him to
hate us, forced him to fight. And I believe—I
must
believe—that he can be saved. That deep inside, he still loves
Requiem."

Frey raised his eyebrows. "I
should think that an officer in the Legions would crave to behead our
greatest enemy."

Tilla swallowed. She had to
tread carefully here. A wrong word and she herself would lose her
head. She glanced again at the jars. She hated Rune. She hated all
that he'd done. Yet for her memories, for her seashells, and for
that kiss, she had to save him. She had to.

She returned her eyes to the
emperor.

"Our
greatest enemy is no single man, Commander," she said. "Our
enemy is an
idea
.
Our enemy is
defiance
.
The Resistance is small; they cannot defeat us with strength of
arms. They fight not with blades, but with foolish dreams. That's
why they did not attack the capital, but plastered their words across
our walls." Tilla trembled, knowing she could die any second,
but kept talking. "To the Resistance, that's all Rune is. Not
a warrior. Certainly not a leader. He's an
idea
.
He's a memory of older days."

Frey stared at Tilla, and his
eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened, and she could not breathe.
She was sure he would kill her. She was sure this was her last
flicker of life. When Frey opened his mouth, she expected him to
call the axehands to torture and slay her.

Yet only a laugh burst from his
lips, a snort of amusement.

"Ha! My daughter was
right." Frey's lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. "You
are a wise one, Lanse Siren. But tell me—should rebellious ideas
not be crushed? A figurehead rises against us. Should we not behead
him?"