“You’re holding the reins too tightly,” Vhalla advised quietly over Fritz to Larel, who seemed to be having trouble controlling her horse. Larel gave her an appreciative glance. Even though Vhalla would have rather them be safe in the Tower, she was glad to have her friends near her.
She began to notice strange glances from the other soldiers as more fell into line. There was a definite break between those dressed in silver and white and those dressed in silver and black. Friends were going to be in short supply on the march.
A quiet swept up from behind her, and the major turned. Aldrik sat atop his large War-strider, riding through the gap to Major Reale.
“My prince.” The major bowed her head.
“Major Reale.” Aldrik’s voice was sharp. “How many do we have?” His eyes scanned through the recruits.
“Just shy of fifty,” the major reported, confirming Vhalla’s suspicions that they were the smallest group.
“Then I want just shy of fifty coming home.” The prince took the reins in his hands as the major nodded. He directed his horse through the ranks, heading toward the front, but spared the second for a glance at Vhalla. Their eyes met, and his face relaxed a fraction, a conflicting mess of emotions building behind his stare.
Vhalla hardened her gaze as much as she could and gave him a small nod. He put his heels to his horse and posted a trot to the front of the line.
The time for sadness and pity was over. The girl who had come to the palace at eleven and lived her life in the library was dead; she’d been killed by the Senators whom she’d always been taught were sworn to protect her. The woman sitting in the saddle now had to find a heart crafted of black steel. She had to survive if for no other reason than to spite the world.
The host was in place, and the men and women shifted in their saddles. Vhalla clutched her reins tightly. She could do this, she told herself over the mental lies that her knees weren’t shaking in the stirrups.
“Open the gates!” the Emperor boomed.
The lower gates groaned to life, opening for the hoard of warriors behind them. The Emperor led the march as the host spilled out into the mountaintop city with a thunderous rumble. Somewhere at the front soldiers began to cry, a wordless shout of bloodlust, fear, victory, and hope.
Vhalla did not make a sound.
THE DIN OF the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets filled her ears. They set a brisk pace down the city and through the assembled crowds. More than one person stared with morbid curiosity or fear as the Black Legion passed, and Vhalla struggled not to give the masses any heed.
But, despite her best efforts, her eyes wandered; Vhalla was faced with a mix of horror, fear, and anger. Sorcerers, they were outcasts and unwanted creatures and—as far as many of the crowd were concerned—they had overstepped their boundaries the moment they left the Tower. More than once, someone was bold enough to throw something at them, though it normally missed and hit a pole-armed soldier at their front or an archer at their backs. The Black Legion was much smaller than the other groups.
By the increasing damage to the city, Vhalla realized they were close to the square of Sun and Moon. It had only been a few days since the already infamous Night of Fire and Wind, and most things were still in disrepair. Guilt swelled within her to near dizzying levels.
As they reached the lower wall of the city the houses became shorter, less opulent. It made the wall all the more impressive. The capital’s first line of defense was a massive structure that utilized natural features and stone of the mountain. The drawbridge of the main gate was already being lowered for the host to march through.
“Ride close!” Major Reale called from her left.
Vhalla steered her horse close to the center of the column, and they passed through the gate. The city continued to stretch on beyond the wall on the other side of the moat, a moat that would remain dry throughout the winter months. Even poorer homes lined the mountainside to the valley below.
The road they marched upon eventually came to a T against the Great Imperial Way, a road that ran from the border of the Empire in the North to the sea in the South. The host turned left and began to head in a northwestern direction. Laid stones made their path wide enough that the entire host could ride and march abreast, eleven to fifteen men side-by-side.
It wasn’t until they hit the forest that a horn blew long and low. The whole of the host slowed their pace, and the leaders called for a change in formation.
Major Reale waved out her arm to the right. “Make a space,” she called, and they obliged.
Vhalla focused ahead; the whole army kept on while cleaving a hole down the middle. Aldrik, to his father’s left, slowed his horse and the soldiers marched forward around him. Then the Emperor stopped his mount, and finally the golden prince. The Imperial family fell into place among the ranks.
Prince Baldair stayed in the middle front with all the sword-bearing soldiers. The Emperor rode behind him among the pole-arms. A few rows after was Vhalla and the crown prince, who now occupied the space between her and the major. His War-strider was a large creature, and her waist was on the same level as Aldrik’s knee.
She glanced up at him, and caught his eyes on her at the same time. Vhalla gave a small bow of her head.
“My prince,” she said respectfully. He barely nodded and turned back to the major. Vhalla looked forward. She wanted to believe that it was simply chance how the formation had lined up, but she was too smart for that. The man to her left gave nothing to chance.