6. Loran
6
LORAN
In a wide clearing near the center of Dehan Forest, Loran sat on a tree stump. She ripped an Imperial banner into strips and tied one around her head, a fresh eyepatch for her empty left socket. The cool autumn air still smelled vaguely of sulfur, and black smoke rose from the smoldering logs of the guardhouse that had been set ablaze in blue flame.
In the seven days since she’d left the dragon’s lair, Loran had used the sword to devastate three legion outposts, each of them manned by a dozen legionaries. The burning rubble before her was all that remained of the third one. It had not been an ordinary fire that consumed her enemy but the breath of the dragon. Loran had named her sword Wurmath, which in Arlandais meant “the dragon’s promise.”
For Wurmath was a sword that could summon dragonfire. Her worries about possessing only the skills of a mere local swordmaster, a teacher and not a regular practitioner of the blade, seemed absurd now, when the dragon’s fire would refuse to go out until there was nothing left to burn. The soldiers would roll around or douse themselves with water trying to extinguish the flames, but this had no effect on the blue tongues that lapped at their skin. Regardless of their efforts, an agonizing death was always the outcome.
These deaths brought Loran not satisfaction or emptiness but another, strange feeling—a kind of anxiety, stemming from realization that nothing would change no matter how many of these outposts she burned. All she was doing was giving the Empire a reason to send more forces—stronger forces—to oppress Arland further.
When the last king of Arland had ridden the back of the fire-dragon into battle against the Empire, Loran was a teenage girl, standing on the city walls beside her mother, witnessing the fate of her country. The Empire’s enormous Powered weapon, a so-called gigatherion, looked like a gigantic beetle and flew despite its machine bulk, its power matching the dragon in every way. The dragon’s fire had only charred the surface of its iron armor at best. The Empire had dozens, perhaps hundreds of gigatherions, machines designed for battle with dragons or gods, each with its own Power generator. And as for the ultimate Powered weapon, of which only rumors persisted, the Star of Mersia that was said to have reduced the prosperous nation of its namesake into a wasteland overnight…
Even without the gigatherions or the Star of Mersia, the Empire’s forces had no equal. They had Powered chariots that felled fortress walls like rotten boards, and elite legionaries whose Powered armor gave them the strength of several ordinary men. Their advantage in numbers alone daunted Loran. How long could she fight against the largest army in the world? She was only a lay swordswoman who had become so consumed with grief and thoughts of revenge that she had risked her life to obtain the fang of a dragon and was now aimlessly thrashing it about. Surely this was not the true meaning of becoming king.
Perhaps, she wondered, her sword should’ve been named “a woman’s promise.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps. A low hum accompanied the heavy footfalls, a rumble like the one from the volcano in Arland, the so-called sound of the sleeping dragon. Dehan Forest was at the eastern edge of Arland, on the border with Kamori. Loran looked westward, but the volcano wasn’t visible through the dense forest. What she did see, though, was a lookout platform for Imperial soldiers, built into the top of one of the far-off trees. It had been on her left side, which was perhaps why she had missed it in her approach. She was still getting used to seeing with only one eye.
The standard of the Empire came into view at the other side of the clearing; the number “25,” the designation of this legion, was barely discernible, but it was unclear whether the animal of the insignia was a bird or lion. The standard-bearer was wearing armor from the neck down, his armor so large that his exposed head looked ridiculously small in comparison. As he entered the clearing, hoisting the banner before him, four more soldiers in similar armor came into view behind him. Loran had seen such armor only once before, when her daughter had begged her to go see a legion parade. This was the armor Powered by the generators, worn only by the Empire’s most elite soldiers.
A legionary with opulent gold ornaments on his armor stepped forward and called to Loran.
“You there! We came when we saw the smoke. What’s happened here?”
His flawless Imperial marked him as a heartlander. His golden armor decorations looked similar to those that adorned the centurions of the 171st Legion, the one that had occupied Arland and its neighboring lands for the last few years. The Imperial legions toured the provinces, taking turns occupying the many fortresses of the vast Empire. Loran had heard a recent rumor that a shift in the resident legion of Lontaria was at hand. Evidently, it was the Twenty-Fifth Legion’s turn to occupy Ledon, Arland, and Kamori.
Behind the troop of five Powered legionaries was a cart of sorts, a box with an open top and four legs. There was no beast drawing it. Loran couldn’t see what was inside, but a man behind it had his hands tied and chained to the cart. He was tall, perhaps about forty years old, but seemed like a child next to the suits of Powered armor. His eyes met hers. They were scores of steps apart, but she found herself unable to break his steady gaze.
“You! Are you deaf, woman?!”
The legionary approached her. Loran didn’t answer him. She was thinking. If she couldn’t win against Powered legionaries, there was no future for her in battle. They were a mountain she had to climb.
“That neck scribble. An Arlander. What are you doing on the Kamori border? You can’t be responsible for this yourself?”
Without thinking, Loran covered her clan markings with her hand. The centurion unsheathed his sword, and his helmet, which had been hanging in the back, flipped forward and sealed him in his armor. The other legionaries followed suit, drawing their swords and donning their helmets, as the shields attached to their left forearms also unfolded.
“Lay down your weapons and comply with our questioning. Gwaharad of Kamori is also in our hands.”
Gwaharad? She didn’t know of any Gwaharad. He must be the man whose hands were tied, and they must think she was here to rescue him.
Loran drew Wurmath from her belt.
“I am Loran, Princess of Arland. I know of no Gwaharad, but it is true that I am responsible for what you see before you.” Loran couldn’t keep the note of pride from her voice as she taunted, “I did this. Against twelve of your friends.”
Wurmath grew hot in her hand. She gripped the hilt and heard a sound like the hiss of heated iron being dropped into cool water. The blade glowed red, sulfuric smoke rising from it. But the armored men continued to approach, not hesitating.
“Destroying a legion outpost is a crime,” said the centurion. Then, with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible for something so large, the armored legionary sprang toward her. He was at least eight feet tall, thanks to the armor, and his approach was like that of a falling cliff.
Loran was momentarily stunned but managed to raise Wurmath and block the centurion’s short blade just in time. If he’d been using the ordinary shortsword most legionaries wielded, his blade would have been cut in half by Wurmath’s heat. But his sword was different. It had a violet light lingering about it.
But it was the centurion, not Loran, who took a step backward in surprise.
“What is this?”
The man named Gwaharad was now in front of the cart watching the fight. At the centurion’s signal, the legionaries surrounded Loran in well-drilled movements, leaving only the standard-bearer by the cart with the prisoner. Loran gestured to Gwaharad to duck. He nodded, and quickly slipped back behind the cart.
Loran swung Wurmath in a semicircle, conjuring fire and screams of confusion and pain from the soldiers. When the fires dispersed, only Loran and the centurion were left standing unharmed while the legionaries that surrounded them were screaming in their now red-hot armor. None of the soldiers had fallen to the ground, the sheer bulk of their armor keeping them on their feet while black smoke issued from the joints of their armor and the stench of burning hair filled the air. The screaming soon turned to whimpers, then ceased.
The centurion’s armor steamed a little, but he was otherwise unscathed as he watched in horror as his men were cooked alive inside their armor.
“A monstrous trick,” he said finally, the same violet light she’d seen on his sword now creating a protective sheen over his armor. The centurion’s gold-adorned armor was more than just opulent, Loran gathered.
“It is no trick,” she responded. “It is the fire of the dragon that watches over Arland.”
The centurion kept his sword trained on her as he considered her words.
“I see you for what you are. You are a worshipper of gods and demons. You curry favor with inhuman things to disrupt the peace and order of the Empire. But see this, enemy of man. What effect has that dragon’s fire had on me? On this armor and sword made by the Empire, by man.”
“Mighty words for someone who just lost three of his men.” But Loran could not think of a way to fight him if his armor truly was impenetrable, even by dragonfire.
The centurion adjusted the grip on his shortsword, and the violet light intensified. The blade seemed to grow.
“That sword may spew the fire of dragons,” he said, “but the one who yields it is merely human.”
His subsequent thrust was more aggressive than his previous swing, and Loran barely dodged it, much less tried to parry. His sword sliced the edge of her leather armor and bit into the flesh by her ribs. She gritted her teeth. He was more skilled with the sword than she was. True, the Powered armor helped his strength and speed, but that was the kind of academic difference one might argue about in a sword-fighting lesson, not on the field of battle.
“A one-eyed swordswoman with moves like a schoolmarm,” sneered the centurion. “Came into a bit of luck with a fancy sword, have we?”
Loran cared less about such mockery and more about the fact that she might die here.
His blade shone violet as he attacked her again, relentless and from all angles. Just dodging and parrying the blows was enough to make her lose her breath. Her opponent’s blade grazed her side again.
She could see that the centurion was pleased with himself. The Empire loved nothing more than power and strength, and the subjugation of those they considered inferiors was a point of virtue to them. She remembered her petitions to the prefect in her attempts to save the lives of her husband and daughter, convicted for treason when all they had done was sing. The Empire mocked you if you cried. Stepped on you if you knelt. Spat on you if you begged.
She was goaded to the edge of the clearing, and there was only dense forest behind her. It would be even harder to defend herself there. Either she ended it here or she herself was ended.
And her opponent knew this. He paused in his relentless thrusts and proclaimed, in a loud voice full of pride, “I shall teach you who it was that killed you. I am Marius, high centurion of the Twenty-Fifth Legion!”
He raised his sword above his head.
Her very sight trembled. Not because she feared death, or because she was overwhelmed by Marius’s skills. No, this short vertigo came from rage. She was enraged at the man’s arrogant glee. Enraged that after having just declared herself a princess of Arland, she allowed herself to be backed into a corner like this. Loran was a princess of this land and its future king. She was not someone to be treated this way by a mere soldier of the Empire.
She knew, in her head, that such thoughts were ridiculous, that she was not a real princess and that the centurion’s words were closer to the truth—she was only a “schoolmarm” swordswoman with an interesting sword. But her body, for some reason, refused to acknowledge this. Her arms shook. Blood rushed to her head. The wound covered by her makeshift eyepatch grew hot.
Marius suddenly took a step back. The helmet that covered his head made his expression impossible to see, but his stance was enough to convey his surprise and confusion. His boasts ceased. His sword hovered in the air.
“What—”
Loran threw Wurmath on the ground and charged at Marius like a rising wave. The centurion fell, a lighthouse overwhelmed by the force of an ocean, the metal giant landing on his back with a violent clang. The Powered armor hummed a pitch higher as it tried to get its owner back on his feet, but its efforts were in vain.
Loran, straddling the fallen soldier, brought her face right up to his helmet visor and growled, “You insolent bastard!”
Her right hand slipped under the gap between the chest armor and helmet as her left went for the helmet itself. There was a screech of ripping metal as the helmet gave way and went flying off, the chest armor crumpling like foil from her sheer strength. Marius’s bare face and chest were exposed. His thin cotton tunic was drenched in sweat.
Suddenly, her field of vision expanded—she could see out of her left eye. In the widened eyes of the terrified Marius, Loran saw the reflection of a blue flame in her empty eye socket, the same hue as what she had seen inside the dragon’s mouth.
“Dr—drag—dragon—”
“I am Loran. Princess of Arland.”
Loran plunged her fingers into Marius’s chest, which gave way like so much cooked meat to a fork. Dark red blood spurted from Marius’s mouth and chest.
She pulled her hand back, the force releasing another spray of blood, and rose. She picked up Wurmath and looked down at the centurion writhing at her feet. Soon, even the surprise and terror that had lit up his eyes were no more.
Loran held up her right hand, the hand that had pierced Marius’s chest. Her nails were dagger-like claws, but soon resumed the shape of an ordinary human hand, if a little callused. She touched her left eye and found that her eyepatch had a hole. The blue flame. It must have burned through the patch. She removed it and saw a burnt spot, as if she’d stuck a red-hot poker into it. The sight in her left eye that had briefly returned slowly turned back to black.
She stood there for a moment before remembering the standard-bearer of the Twenty-Fifth Legion and turning quickly toward the cart. The legion standard was lying on the ground now, and Gwaharad was strangling the standard-bearer with the rope that kept him tied to the cart. How had Gwaharad managed to take off the man’s helmet?
She approached the cart as the standard-bearer’s body grew slack. Gwaharad watched her for a moment in silence, then dropped the rope and turned to run. But the rope pulled tight against the weight of the cart, to which it was still tied, and he fell. Loran stepped forward with her palms up, showing she had no intent to harm.
“By all the sacred groves, what are you?” Gwaharad’s voice shook with fear.
Loran hesitated before answering. “My name is Loran, and I am an Arlander. I understand that your name is Gwaharad. Why have you been captured by the Imperials?” She hadn’t an inkling as to how a princess should sound. She tried to speak with dignity but without arrogance.
Gwaharad did not answer, only stared at Loran with wide eyes, rubbing at his cheeks with both hands. Loran mirrored him, touching her own face. She felt something hard and smooth and flaky. She rubbed harder, and two red scales, almost an inch in size, fell from her skin. Astonished, she scrubbed at her face—and found it covered from forehead to chin in scales, like a helm with no faceplate. They didn’t feel like they grew out of her, more like they had appeared from nowhere and attached themselves to her. Scales continued to fall as she clawed at her hairline and her chin in disbelief.
Gwaharad seemed to find her consternation reassuring. He bowed deeply. “I beg Your Highness’s forgiveness for my impudence.” There was respect in his voice where before it had held only fear.
“In truth, I am not His Majesty King Gwaharad but his brother, Emere. Circumstances compelled me to pretend to be the king, and I had no intention of misrepresenting myself to a princess of Arland. Again, I beg your forgiveness.”
Gwaharad must be the King of Kamori. Which meant Emere, his brother, was something like a prince, arguably the same rank as a princess. Loran suddenly felt silly about this wrangling of made-up titles. Kamori had no real king. Neither did Arland or Ledon, or anywhere else in the world. At least, this was so in the eyes of the Empire. Loran imagined Gwaharad to be someone much like herself. There are still those who fight. And there always will be. That was what the dragon in the volcano had said.
As she hesitated, unsure of how to answer, Emere went on. “My brother, the king, will arrive shortly. Your Highness has achieved what I had hoped to by feigning capture.” Emere eyed the Powered cart. As Loran wondered what it was carrying, Emere bowed deeply and continued. “I beseech you to meet with the King of Kamori and allow us to share your cause.”
Emere’s manners were flawless. Loran assented, and she lifted Wurmath to carefully sever the knot that bound his hands.
Emere brought his freed hand to his lips and whistled three times.
The forest rippled. Men and women dressed in green and brown and disguised with leaves and branches slowly emerged from the woods. Their disguises were varied, but they each had an archer’s bow on their back. By their orderly walk and uniform expression, Loran could tell this was not a group of ordinary bandits. Soon, about sixty Kamori soldiers had come into the clearing. The blue fire of the burning log guardhouse was still sending up black smoke into the sky. As the soldiers fell into formation, a middle-aged man with long hair came out of the forest. He wore no disguise. Instead, he wore a gold crown and a cloak hemmed with silver thread. Painted on his armor underneath the cloak was a green lion standing on its hind legs. The sword on his belt was black from hilt to scabbard. His expression was benevolent but unsmiling. This must be Gwaharad.
Emere darted through the formation of soldiers and went down on one knee before him. “Your Majesty.”
“Very good, Emere,” said Gwaharad. “Do you have what we came for at hand?” His gaze briefly shifted toward Loran before returning to his kneeling brother.
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“We were going to move once you entered Dehan Forest, but the smoke issuing from here made us reluctant to proceed. Who is this hero?”
“A princess of Arland,” said Emere, the words Loran herself found so difficult to use issuing smoothly from his lips. “She single-handedly obliterated this outpost and killed four Powered legionaries.”
All eyes turned to Loran. The attention was uncomfortable. Gwaharad brushed past Emere and the ranks of his soldiers, who moved to widen the path for him without any other prompting.
Standing before Loran, Gwaharad held out both his hands.
“I am Gwaharad, King of Kamori. It is gladdening to meet a princess of Arland.”
“It is my honor to be in your illustrious presence, Your Majesty.” She had never heard of his name before this day, but Loran was prudent.
“Join us. You, Princess, have vanquished the Imperial dogs in this forest and saved many of my people’s lives—we are in your debt. And I am eager to hear the story of how you came upon your sword.”
Emere gestured and the soldiers moved to the cart, where they began off-loading its cargo, the largest being a metal box wrapped in chains. It looked like a coffin, and heavy even for ten people sharing the burden on their shoulders.
“We must go,” said Gwaharad briskly, “before the smoke attracts more of the Imperial soldiers.”
Loran nodded in agreement. Though she was exhausted from the fight, her steps felt light as she followed Gwaharad and Emere out of the clearing. There were other people out there standing against the Empire, and she had found them. She was no longer alone.