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 fightagainst 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 herhand. 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 anddemons. 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.
