Trial of Bronze and Blood

1. Drusilla

CHAPTER ONE

DRUSILLA

W ar is bloody. It cares not who wins or who loses, who’s right and who’s wrong. In the end, it demands payment in blood. And it always collects.

War is what brings Drusilla Valerius to the small village of Nusquam on the outskirts of the Phaedran Imperium, exhausted and half-starved.

Born into conflict, Dru and her people have known nothing else since the inception of the Phaedran empire centuries ago.

The Imperium’s tyrannical reign and remorseless lust for conquering ravaged her people’s villages and destroyed their culture.

She lost her family because of them; left her home and joined the brutal group called the Faithless because of them—a faction who raised her when both her parents had left this world.

The six years spent in the service of the Faithless have all but erased who she was before, replacing her with a murderous, obedient apparition. A thing to fear.

“Why are we here again?” Ovidia Faustus—Dru’s companion and closest confidant—wonders aloud as they amble down the main road in Nusquam, a small military settlement on the fringes of the Imperium.

Dru’s wariness worsens from how empty it is. Given most of these dwellings house Phaedran soldiers, though, the deserted streets work in their favor. If the soldiers found out who and what the two women are, they’d be arrested immediately.

Quelling a sigh, Dru procures the slip of worn paper containing their Faithless orders from a pocket sewn inside her traveling cloak. Vision blurred from fatigue, she squints at the words, the scrawl visible enough in the waning sun.

“We’re looking for a man who lives behind a blue-painted door.” Dru flips the paper over before slipping it back inside her pocket. “That’s all they gave us.”

Ovi kicks at a pebble in the path. “Stellae, they’re getting lazy. I’m surprised they mentioned the blue door at all. Next time, it’ll simply say ‘man’ and we’ll be expected to divine a name from it.”

Ovi continues her tirade without giving Dru a chance to respond. “When’s the last time we’ve had anything to eat? Or drink? Especially drink.”

“You ate most of the meager supplies we stole from those silk traders last night,” Dru points out. “I barely got a bite.”

Ovi pauses, considering this. “I’ll grant you the food, but they had no wine. I would give up my left pinky finger for a sip of wine.”

Dru peers over the tops of the surrounding huts, searching for a place to stop. Her neck aches, and her sage-green woolen cloak weighs heavy on her shoulders, but it’s the only thing keeping away the waning breeze from the river at their backs.

Past the next house, an enormous spray of olive leaves peaks over the roof, taller than it has any right to be.

Dru almost laughs. Finally, a stroke of good luck.

There are whisperings of a tabernae, built on this land centuries ago atop the low stump of an ancient olive tree.

Though they tried to destroy the tree, it eventually took root again and grew around the tabernae.

Rumor claims it now towers over all the other trees in the grove .

Careful to soften her footfalls, she grabs Ovi’s hand and cuts between two small huts, leading them out into an open field.

The remnants of the setting sun bathe the deadening grass in a deep gold, illuminating the worn path leading up to the giant olive tree.

Other, smaller trees scatter the area, but otherwise, it’s unoccupied.

Dru gestures at the establishment— if you can call it that . “I don’t think you’ll have to part with much more than a coin or two.”

The tabernae—Tabernae Ebrius, or so says the wooden sign above the door—sits tucked inside the giant innards of the ancient tree.

Warm candlelight glows through its round, dirt-streaked windows, promising respite and revelry to anyone who passes by.

Loose dirt and pebbles scuff beneath their caligae sandals; a handful of the sharper ones sneak between the gaps and jab the bottom of Dru’s feet.

She hisses but otherwise keeps her discomfort to herself.

The amber sun dips behind the low mountains as they hurry up the path.

The final morsels of light brush the sky in gentle pink and orange strokes, slowly blackening the land.

A soft smile pulls at Dru’s lips. The farther south they travel, the more beautiful the sunsets become—it reminds Dru of her home, of the twilights spent lying in the fields with her mother, waiting until it was dark enough to trace the stars with their fingers.

The night should bring peace to her thoughts, but instead, caution weighs on her mind. Given how exposed they are, every crinkle of grass or snapping of a twig invites wariness into her bones. She glances over her shoulder, finding it empty still.

Ovi reaches down lithely and plucks a long blade of dead grass, unburdened by Dru’s concerns. “Do you remember that one tabernae in the northern mountains?”

Dru scoffs. “That was a brothel, Ovi.”

She smiles faintly, a far-off look in her gaze. “Oh, right. That was a good night.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Ovi flicks the blade of grass away. “It’s your own fault you didn’t partake.”

Dru shoves her gently. “Someone had to keep a lookout for trouble.”

Ovi grins. “And I thank you for that.”

Coming to stand in front of the crooked door, the muted hums of merriment grate on Dru’s nerves, the faint stench of vomit and old wine turning her stomach.

She marks the deep, angry scars carved into the tree’s bark by the hard slashes of sharpened blades.

A warning sensation pricks along her neck and shoulders.

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Ovi snorts. “You’re the one who suggested it. Stay outside if you want; more wine for me.”

Their orders from the Faithless weigh heavy inside Dru’s pocket.

“We’ll find someone to steal rations from instead.”

“In a town full of Imperium soldiers?” Ovi snorts, slinging back her shoulders. “I like my head attached to my body, thank you very much.”

“Ovi, this is a bad idea?—”

“Only the good sort of bad. Don’t worry, Dru.” Her hand is already on the door, pushing inside. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Dru sighs. No way out of it now. I shouldn’t have told her we could find wine here.

An old song from Obliviscatur greets her as she steps inside next to Ovi—a somber melody from Dru’s homeland.

Her chest clenches slightly from the memory.

Not so long ago, hearing this song would’ve brought her to her knees.

Now, her first home has become nothing more than a place overshadowed in her mind from years of studying to become Phaedran.

The Obliviscaturians were once a brave people, like the rebellious Namicans across the river from this village.

But their leader made a poor marriage alliance with a ruler in what was at the time the free north, who immediately betrayed them to the Imperium.

Once the Phaedran army cut off all their roads, effectively removing any chance of outside aide, they couldn’t recover .

Met with only the meek resistance of a starving nation, it took little time for the Imperium army to move across the land which once belonged to her people and seize it for their own.

Like all the other conquered nations, they butchered the strongest Obliviscaturians and sold the survivors into slavery, establishing colonies on their land and populating them with retired Phaedran soldiers.

As if the conquered never existed.

The whole of it has long festered in her heart, hardening her.

It made her a rebellious girl from the moment the Faithless found her, orphaned and near death.

They sought to beat out of her any love for her fallen country, of course, but it couldn’t be done—though she managed to convince them otherwise.

Why would she rid herself of the one thing that drives her to follow their orders, whose sole purpose is to thwart the Imperium that took everything from her?

Once the door shuts behind her, she searches for somewhere to sit.

The stench of sweat hangs heavy in the stagnant air as the heat of the crowded tabernae presses in on her.

Moisture beads on her temple, and the matted dirt on her face—her second skin from traveling on foot the past week—itches from it.

She doesn’t wipe it away, though; years spent on the road has helped her grow used to the discomfort.

Not that it makes her any happier to be here.

Especially with the bard’s off-key crooning massacring her homeland’s ancient ballad.

“ Where sanded bones of valiant lie,

And whose spilled blood hath run dry;

Were those who lived for love and vie,

And whose destruction was but nigh,

Laid the thriving city of Malum.

In the brooding age of heroes gone

Was built a place of charm and brawn

To which our fair maiden was drawn

The doomed city of Malum. ”

She groans. Not only is the bard’s singing dissonant, but it’s in another key entirely.

The lament of the song has long been lost, defiling it into a jaunty tune meant to be enjoyed with a cup of wine instead of a desolate ballad often sung at funerals.

The urge to throw her dagger at him nearly overwhelms her.

But she can’t bring unwanted attention to them: a quick glance around the room reveals mostly Imperium soldiers, who wouldn’t take kindly to their entertainment being cut short.

Grasping her hood tighter around her slightly rounded face to ensure her thick, dark brown locks stay in place, Dru slides into the end of a long wooden table in the back, muttering, “We should’ve stayed outside.”

Ovidia tosses her own hood back carelessly and takes a seat across from her. Her long, honey-colored hair hangs down in greasy tendrils, and her cold, emerald eyes harbor dark smudges beneath them. Dru taps her dirty fingernails against the table’s surface, glancing around them.

Ovi places her hand on Dru’s. “Don’t tell me you’re already regretting stopping here.”