Chapter 35 Claim of the Captains
The courtyard we stand in is nothing but black, charred cobblestone and bloodstains. This is the sparring arena, open to the elements. Above us a storm rages, rain pouring down and soaking the entire battalion I stand with.
I look up and down the lines of soldiers around me, dozens of them standing to attention. Each of them wears heavy metal armor, some red, some black, and some blue or gray. All but the very first people in each line. My people, the new slayers. The ones who survived the trial and the toll of the mountain. We stand, intimidated, frightened, and cold.
The sky roils with the storm, teasing its capacity for destruction above us. Lava flows like veins of blood beneath our feet, popping and boiling, steam rising all around us. The ever-present scent of sulfur stings my nose. The only thing keeping us between life and death is magic—magic emanating from a woman floating in a mist of crackling lightning on the grand podium next to Thorne and three other imposing figures.
Thorne stands tall, his curved staff held before him and gripped with both hands. His face is turned toward the stones beneath his feet, but his countenance says he knows everything going on around him.
“Slayers!” his voice booms, louder than should be possible. It echoes off the tall fortress walls around us, bounces off the ground, and rings in our ears.
In the windows of the fortress, people cheer, a cacophony similar to the din of a battle cry before a war. Power brings gooseflesh to my skin and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Thorne has commanded the attention of the entire fortress with one word.
“I have gone to the cities, wandered the towns, and scraped every mountainside. I return to you with the future, the continuation of our great duty, the fresh blood that will shape the destiny of all in Amaranthine.”
A hush falls, one so eerily quiet after the roar of praise that it makes my stomach drop. Besides Thorne, there are four other people on the dais. Each is in full armor with wicked-looking weapons. Each faces the start of the lines before them with a sense of ownership and imminent threat.
“I stand with my captains, the leaders of each band. You will live and breathe what these men and women say. Your lives depend on them. Your deaths ride on their wings. Consider them your gods, for it is their will and desire whether you live to join the ranks of slayers or those who die for this kingdom in fire and rage.” Thunder rolls as Thorne finishes his last word.
As he raises his staff high above his head, the anticipation is palpable. His eyes flash with a fierce intensity as he slams the staff into the ground with a thunderous crack. At that precise moment, a bolt of lightning splits the sky, drawn to the staff like iron to a magnet.
The lightning strikes with a blinding flash, illuminating the entire courtyard in an otherworldly glow. The force of the impact sends a shockwave rippling through the ground. One that dies to silence in the same way the staff returns to untouched wood.
Every trainee in the courtyard jumps, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror. The air is thick with the acrid scent of ozone and charred wood. Thorne grins beneath his blindfold, one side of his mouth tilting up even as his chin turns towards me. Just like him, I stand in the middle of the rows of men and women. I stand in a line of my own, alone. I feel Thorne’s attention on me like ants crawling over my skin. I’m the odd one out, the one who shouldn't be here. The only one without a row of slayers behind her and a captain before her. I stand in Thorne’s shadow alone, and while the idea instills me with terror, it seems to instill my master with a sick glee.
“Captain Blight,” Thorne barks.
A man standing on the far left steps forward. His dark skin seems to reflect the lightning in the sky, his wicked grin flashing in eyes so dark they seem black. He stretches his shoulders, leaning forward with his massive chest where a glimmering green scale stretches like a breastplate over his pectorals.
Blight kneels, and as his hand touches the ground beneath him, green smoke billows from between his fingers. He looks up, locking eyes with Sylvain, who stands directly in front of him.
Slowly, the miasma of green poison reaches out and engulfs her.
She screams, trying to back away, but the poison holds her. Everyone freezes in place horrified, but no one moves to help her.
“Fodder,” Blight speaks, his voice like molasses dripping off death itself. “I claim you in the name of the jade dragon. You are mine, Sylvain the Green.”
Sylvain inhales in shock, swallowing the poison. Her eyes flash green like the power, and for a moment she levitates. Behind, her band roars with excitement, clapping their hands before they surround her and pull her back down to earth.
Welcoming her into the group.
Sylvain has tears in her eyes, but not of fear, not now. She’s accepted.
A wave of chills passes through all the trainees. I watch it flow from Sylvain, making every single one of us shiver in place.
“Captain Steel,” Thorne calls, a sly lilt accenting his voice.
The man standing next to the kneeling Blight steps forward. He wears a mask of silver, slits cut forged from what can only be the scale of the great silver dragon. His armored hand rises and grips the mask, tilting it up to reveal a fanged grin on pale white skin.
He steps forward, each movement a clink of armor over the massive, imposing man. Steel walks up to Zaries and removes his mask completely. There’s a vicious scar that cuts down the entire right side of his face, straight through a milky white eye, but the brilliant blue eye that remains rips an emotional hole through everyone it lands on.