Chapter 2: Escape

White is for purity, which never lasts long

Next is Yellow, for life long and strong

Then comes Green, the color of luck

Blue comes next, calm amid havoc

Then is Red, for bloodshed and strife

Black is last, power to survive

Ravens in Bronze fly the length of the blade

One each for the fallen, to honor their shades

–Unknown, Deathdancers, a children’s rhyme

Outskirts of Crythra, Empire of Psithyros

Summer, 197 ECY

“How could you ever seriously consider yourself worthy of Honorious Aquilune?”

The words struck with the force of a charging cataphract’s lance. Flavia schooled her face to stillness as every Imperial House scion learned, but still felt shameful tears welling at the corners of her eyes. How could Honorious treat her like some discarded joygirl? The contemptuous kiss he left her with burned like a brand on her forehead. She felt as if the touch of his lips was obvious to everyone, a seared mark declaring to the world that she was the only woman fool enough to have shared his bed for years without realizing that she was a convenient ornament. Trickster’s touch, to think that she nearly agreed to turn traitor with him. Was it possible for love to turn to hate within a few heartbeats? That morning, she would have said that was the province of poets and weepy teens, but she understood now. Her thoughts burned with hate, or whatever it was that she now felt for him. It felt like somebody else’s dream when the Agema forced her to her knees with the others and bound her hands and feet together behind her back. Her eyes tracked Honorious as he joined Luselid in surveying the battlefield.

The river ran red with the blood of the fallen and the field was churned into crimson mud. Three legions, betrayed and slaughtered. Thirteen thousand of Sulanth’s finest had died believing that they fought for their prince. She prayed for Duellona to keep them unaware that he had orchestrated their deaths, lest the knowledge condemn their restless shades to haunt this field, thirsting for justice. Honorious laughed at something Luselid said and his retort made the Psithyron king chuckle and pat him on the shoulder. How could Honorious play the charmer while the triumphant Psithyroi cavorted among the heaped corpses of the legions that died for him? His laughter mocked them. She used to think of his crooked grin as the famed Aquilune smile, but she now saw its true nature: a smug smirk.

Where was the man they rode to battle with for the last seven years? The Honorious who treated defeated foes with respect and earned his army’s loyalty by valuing their lives as he would his own. The legions saw his great-grandfather in him. There was only one Aurelius Aquilune, but Honorious was a gifted leader armed with the magical Aquilune name. He would have made an excellent emperor. He wasted all that potential because of what, rumors? Ambition? He seemed convinced of the emperor’s madness, but lacked even a shade of proof. The man she thought she loved would never betray his family and the legions. This new Honorious was a stranger, a doppelganger wearing her prince’s skin. She suspected the source.

Honorious thought himself clever, but she knew him. She saw his eyes flick everywhere but in Jagged’s direction when she had asked for proof of the emperor’s treachery. Something about that old man made her cringe at the sensation of insects teeming in her hair. There had to be compelling reasons why the Abyssa had never promoted a Soul Burner of his talent over the years, but nobody seemed to know why. Honorious only gave Jagged command of the army’s Soul Burners because he saved Honorious’ life. He had found Jagged’s presence unbearable until a few years ago. Something had changed then, and Jagged had Honorious’ ear ever since; gods knew what poison he had been whispering in it.

Whatever had happened, Honorious was still responsible for his own deeds, and the seeds Jagged planted must have had fertile ground to grow in. It disgusted her to think of the sympathy she had felt for him when Thylia had forced him to swear loyalty under Zorthiss. She had clung to a mad hope until that moment that his treachery was a grand ruse. He had asked for their trust, one last time, and they gave it. Seeing the air darken around him as he swore the traitorous oath, as if the stain to his honor had manifested around him, shattered those fool wishes. Nobody there would forget his whimpering about the Slayer’s dead eyes staring through his soul.

Honorious shared another laugh with King Luselid and Jagged, mounted his horse, and left. Luselid followed, but slowed long enough to tip a hint of a nod to an Agema officer. The Agema began dragging the prisoners them together, away from their heaped weapons. Encouraging pokes with spear butts deterred anyone from straying. The officer Luselid nodded at stood at the top of the slope watching Honorious and Luselid even after the Agema finished herding them into a tight mass of bodies. Her limbs began to ache from maintaining the awkward kneeling position in the grass as the waiting stretched on. Muttering arose from the prisoners. Spear butts thumped into ribs to keep them quiet. What were they waiting for? Were the fool Psithyroi struggling with something as simple as herding prisoners to their camp?

As if hearing her thoughts, the officer turned and barked, “Begin!”

A spearhead exploded from Centurion Nascica’s chest a mere steplength from her. Dying screams erupted as the Agema unleashed slaughter upon their helpless captives. Honorious was innocent of this crime, at least; the Psithyroi had delayed their slaughter until he was out of earshot.

Perhaps they discounted her because she was a woman, perhaps it was just luck; whatever the reason, the Agema ignored Flavia. She threw herself among the corpses of her friends and countrymen and listened with mounting horror to the shrieks and wet squelching of spears thrusting into flesh while praying she would remain unnoticed. A Psithyron lord kneeling next to her babbled to about the riches he would bestow upon his savior until an Agema ran him through.

Flavia thought the Agema’s eyes found hers, but he turned to stab another kneeling lord nearby. She squirmed beneath the bodies of the Psithyron lord and an officer friend when the Agema’s turned; only her face remained exposed. She almost cried out when something metallic ground against her wrist while she moved. She felt for it and her eyes widened when she realized that it was a dagger’s bone hilt—Centurion Nascica’s Imperial Guard dagger, deflected here when Jagged conjured wind to protect Honorious. She could almost sense the grizzled centurion guiding her hands to it. Nascica, I will make you proud.

Flavia shifted to seize the dagger, and began sawing at the ropes binding her limbs. The massacre was almost over, but two Agema nearby were moving through the carnage stabbing corpses, searching for survivors. The ropes parted, but Flavia hesitated. The Agema would kill her before she could stand if she moved to escape. If she stayed still, they might miss her. Her breath came faster as the sound of spears squelching into dead flesh drew closer. She scowled. She’d rather die fighting than hiding under a pile of corpses.

Flavia shoved aside the dead Sulanthan officer and scrambled to her feet with the dagger in hand. She whirled toward the Psithyroi, expecting a warning shout and a spear running through her belly. Instead, she gaped at the steely clash of clanging weapons and the wails of dying men all around her. A Psithyron war band trying to free one of the captive kings had launched a surprise attack on the Agema. It was too much luck to hope for, but the Torchbearer had given her a chance. It was up to her to seize it. Now or never.

Flavia lurched into motion, her first step turning into a stagger as the blood rushed back into limbs numb from the awkward positioning. The nearest Agema had their backs turned to her to guard their comrades’ flanks. Flavia growled and rushed forward. The Imperial Guard dagger slid through an Agema’s unprotected armpit, into his heart. He gasped and dropped his spear to clutch at both her and his wound, but he was already dead. Flavia slapped his fumbling hand away and turned to his gaping comrade. The dagger punched through his thick beard to take him beneath the jaw. Other Agema turned toward her, but she had a path out of the encirclement. Of course, they expected her to take it.

She instead slid the bloodied dagger behind her belt and ran to the piled weapons by the middle of the hilltop. Three Agema who had broken from the rear guard to intercept her on the way down the hill swerved to adjust, but she reached the weapons with a few heartbeats before they arrived. Her eyes darted as she rummaged through the pile. Any of the heaped swords would suffice, but she only wanted only one weapon. She sensed the Agema closing on her, their every footstep bringing the edge of the Slayer’s shadow closer. There! She plunged a hand into the pile. Her fingers curled around her spatha’s familiar grip, wrapped in red silk. The silver owl’s head pommel flashed in the sun. She spun and drew the weapon with a fluid motion just as the Agema reached her. The elite Psithyroi halted and glanced at one another. Ah, you recognize dueling colors? An Agema gestured at her with his weapon and said something about knowing where to put his spear. They all laughed and spread out.

Flavia glided toward the man who made the joke. Her blade flicked out. The Agema blocked with his shield once and again, trying to give his comrades time to flank her. She slashed again but shifted the angle in mid-stroke to redirect the blade at his lead leg. The blade tore through muscle down to the bone, eliciting a grunt. She stepped in to get within the stumbling man’s guard. The spatha danced again, slicing upward. The blade cut through his weapon hand, removing his fingers at the middle knuckle. He cried out and dropped the spear.

The Agema to her right snarled and thrust. Flavia spun aside and slashed down at his outstretched arm with a backhand stroke. The spatha cut deep just above the elbow. The spear tumbled from his nerveless hand. She turned for the third Agema, but something hit the back of her head with a metallic clang; the first Agema struck her with his shield.

The blow sent Flavia reeling forward, though her helm absorbed the worst of it. She stumbled to an awkward halt with her legs splayed, barely retaining her footing. On instinct, she spun and ducked, slashing across her body. The third Agema’s spear hissed just overhead but her spatha slid across his lead leg at the knee, just above his greave. He howled and collapsed to clutch his ruined leg. She looked past him at the other two Agema. Both watched her with wide eyes over their silvery shields. Fear had devoured their arrogance. She advanced, spatha raised to strike. The crippled Agema bent to seize their wailing comrade around his shoulders and fled. Flavia flicked away their blood and wiped the rest on her legion cape before sheathing her blade with a flourish. Those fool Agema would never underestimate Sulanthan women again.

A glance to the battle revealed that the Agema had recovered from their initial surprise and were about to encircle the Psithyron war band. Flavia wished the war band luck, but this was her chance to escape. She tore off her legion cape and flung it and her helm aside before jogging down the hill. She was part of the mightiest army on the continent a few bells ago on the verge of pacifying a vast region. Now, she was deep in enemy territory with the nearest friendly outpost hundreds of milliarii away. They would hunt for her once her they discovered her escape. Making it home alive would be miraculous.

Spotting a fallen Psithyron soldier, she jogged to his side and bent to unfasten his threadbare green cloak. Her fingers paused while undoing the simple clasp holding it in place. The coming weeks would be a constant nightmare, fraught with peril. Her eyes narrowed as she recalled Honorious’ smug smile. Fresh shame welled up at the memory. Not just for her, but for her House. The Tempestani do not allow humiliations to go unanswered. She yanked the cloak from the slain soldier and draped it over her shoulders to hide her distinctive Sulanthan lorica segmentata. She would surmount whatever obstacles the gods saw fit to put in her path. Nothing would stop her from knocking that smirk off Honorious’ face.