EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (181 page)

“Well, starve then, Wobble Lips!” Erry said. “We’ll be rid of your whining, at least.” She stuffed the cheese into her mouth and chewed lustfully.

The rest of the phalanx, ninety-nine of Cadport’s young women, sat on the ground and began to eat.

“Make some room,” Tilla said to Erry, nudging the urchin aside with her boot.

When Erry had squirmed over, Tilla sat beside her and began to eat too. Even Mae, sniffing tears, finally sat down and nibbled a few bites. With everyone seated, they covered the tent floor; a mouse would’ve had no room to scurry between them.

“I miss home,” Mae said. She leaned her head against Tilla’s shoulder. “Tilla, do you remember home?”

Tilla laughed. “We haven’t been gone a moon yet. Of course I remember home.”

“Do you remember the smell of baking bread from my bakery?” Mae inhaled through her nostrils as if she could smell it. “I do. And I remember your shop too, Tilla. My father bought a rope there once. Oh—and do you remember the Old Wheel?” Light filled Mae’s eyes. “I remember how we used to sing there sometimes—you know, the old songs of Requiem. Jem and I used to sing together, and...” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh Tilla... he just... he just died like that, in the forest, alone.”

Tilla felt ice trickle down her spine, and guilt rose through her belly. She had been rolling her eyes at Mae all day, but of course the girl was teary; Beras had butchered her lover not days ago.

“Oh Mae,” she whispered, pulled the baker’s daughter into an embrace, and smoothed her hair. “Do you know what the old priests used to say?”

Mae sniffed and shook her head. “What did they say?”

Tilla held the girl close. “That when we Vir Requis die, our souls rise to the Draco constellation. A starlit palace rises there, the columns all white and glowing. The souls of our fallen drink, sing, and dine there forever.” She kissed Mae’s cheek. “Jem is there now, Mae, and he’s at peace.”

Mae looked up with teary eyes, holding Tilla and trembling. “Really?”

Tilla nodded. “Really. I promise.”

“I like that.” Mae closed her eyes, leaned against Tilla, and mumbled. “Thank you, Tilla. I’m sorry for crying so much. I’ll be a good soldier. I promise. Just don’t let me go yet.”

Tilla nodded and kept stroking the girl’s hair. When she looked to her other side, she saw Erry watching them. For once, the scrawny dock rat had no quip or smirk, and ghosts filled her eyes.

Erry chewed her lip for a moment, looked down, and suddenly blurted out, “My father wasn’t really a dockhand.”

Tilla turned toward her; the girl was furiously staring at her feet, her face was pale, and her fists were clenched.

“Erry,” Tilla said softly, “you don’t have t—“

“He was just a sailor!” Erry said, and now her eyes dampened, and she blinked them madly and punched her thighs. “He wasn’t even
Vir Requis
. He was some... some soldier from southern Tiranor—my mother didn’t even know his name—and... he paid for my mother at the docks. She was a prostitute, Tilla.” Erry looked up, tears in her eyes. “I just lied to people. I didn’t want them to know. I was ashamed of my mother and my mixed blood. I’m nothing but... but a bastard, halfbreed, whore’s daughter!”

Mae gasped, eyes wide.

“Oh, Erry, that’s all right...” Tilla said and tried to embrace her, but Erry shoved her off.

“I don’t need no hugs!” Erry knuckled her eyes. “And I don’t need no stinking pity. I’m strong. I’ve been strong and fighting all my life on the docks. I’m just... a little less strong here. But like it or not, we’re stuck in this damn place now, and three of us already died, and... I just need to be honest here. I need to tell the truth, at least to you and Wobble Lips.” A crooked grin managed to creep through her tears. “But just to you two, so don’t go telling anyone else, or I’ll shove my sword so far up your bottoms, I’ll use the blade to clean your teeth.”

Mae scrunched up her face. “Oh, Erry, that mouth of yours. It’s horrible.”

Erry opened that mouth wide and stuck out her tongue at Mae. Then, with a mischievous gleam, she grabbed Tilla’s arm.

“Now what about you, Roper?” Erry grinned at her. “While we’re all sharing secrets, what’s yours?”

Tilla laughed. “My secrets? I have none.”

“Everybody has secrets,” Mae said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m agreeing with Erry. Tell us, Tilla!” She tugged at Tilla’s other arm. “Tell us your big secret.”

“Secret! Secret! Secret!” Erry chanted, bouncing up and down on her bottom.

“All right, all right!” Tilla said, laughing. “Settle down first.” The two girls fell silent and stared with eager eyes like puppies awaiting treats. Tilla continued. “Do you remember Rune Brewer?”

Erry gasped. “You... you bedded Rune Brewer!” She began to laugh hysterically. “Did the boy even know where to stick it?”

“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 punishers. 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.