In the cold, treacherous land of Vesimaa, children are stolen from their families by a cruel emperor, forced to undergo a horrific transformative procedure and serve in the army as magical fire-wielding soldiers. Pran and Oksana-both taken from their homeland at a young age-only have each other to hold onto in this heartless place. Pran dreams of one day rebelling against their oppressors and destroying the empire; Oksana only dreams of returning home and creating a peaceful life for them both. When they discover the emperor has a new, more terrible mission than ever for their kind, Pran and Oksana vow to escape his tyranny once and for all. But their methods and ideals differ drastically, driving a wedge between them. Worse still, they both soon find that the only way to defeat the monsters that subjugated them may be to become monsters themselves. As electrifying as it is heartbreaking, Sam Taylor's explosive fantasy debut is perfect for fans of the legend of Spartacus and An Ember in the Ashes.
Release date:
February 16, 2021
Publisher:
Feiwel & Friends
Print pages:
368
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He hadn’t taken off his heavy gauntlets and greaves, didn’t even have a chance to sit, when the Commanders gave their next order: night patrol.
Pran cursed and rubbed his already aching leg. He’d been awake since fifth bell that morning, Commanders ordering him to training, then morning patrol, on to battle practice, then still more training, with no rest in between. But the Commanders did not tolerate complaints or dawdling, and Pran had no say in how he spent his days. None of the young soldiers in this fort did, not since they’d all been ripped from their families, dragged hundreds of miles to this copper fort, and told they belonged to the emperor.
And a soldier late to patrol—or sleeping during it—fared almost as badly as any rebels they caught scheming against His Imperial Majesty.
At least tonight Pran had splendid company. Down in City Center, where chemical lamps glowed and breezes drifted around stonework arches and imposing imperial offices, Pran leaned against a wall, shifting his weight off his bad leg, and elbowed Oksana beside him. “See any disturbances?”
“Yes, there’s a ridiculous boy who thinks the Commanders ordered naps instead of night patrol.”
She winked, and the look was heart-stopping when paired with her uniform: sleek leather with a stark red fire-demon patch across the tunic, clawed gauntlets, scaled greaves, brass antlers bound into the vibrant red braid pinned around her head. Her eyes were stained black—the Demon’s Mark, their Commanders called it. One glance at eyes without pupil or iris—without light—made even the fiercest enemies tremble. If Pran were some cornered miscreant, he’d be on his knees begging for mercy.
Instead, he pulled Oksana in for another kiss.
“Pran!” she protested, even while leaning so close her breath brushed the hollow of his throat. “If the Commanders catch us…”
“Nothing’s happening,” Pran whispered against her mouth. “No one’s around to see.”
That was all the coaxing Oksana needed to return the kiss: first quick, then longer, deeper, her lips parting beneath his touch. Their antlers—twisted and terrible, like deer straight from hell—tangled and locked. But with Oksana pressed against him, Pran didn’t care. She rose on her toes, wound her arms across his neck, and he lifted her off her feet.
Or would have, but his leg chose that moment to seize. A spasm ripped through his right thigh like someone had wound a crank inside, and he doubled over with a yelp.
Oksana yanked their antlers apart with an almighty wrench that left his head aching. “Didn’t you get your medicine today?”
He slouched back against the stone wall behind them and hissed through his clenched teeth. “The Commanders will grant me a stronger dose if I wait until after patrol.”
Her jaw stiffened. “Because you work so much better in pain?”
Pain keeps Tuliikobrets alert. For once, the Commanders were right—gods, those were awful words! But with his leg in this state, he could stay awake until tomorrow’s fifth bell. Another wave of pain surged through him and bile rose with it, searing his tongue.
Instead of swallowing that bile as the Commanders would have demanded, Pran spat it onto the pristine cobblestone streets. He wished a Commander were around to see what he thought of their rules, even if all that would earn him was a few lashes across his back. Let them see they didn’t control him completely.
“Hey.” Oksana cupped a hand around his cheek, her woodsmoke-and-clove scent fragrant and familiar, instantly soothing Pran’s nerves. “Do you need to sit?”
With her so near, Pran could see stars reflected in her night-dark eyes. Saw himself in her brass antlers, all the color also blacked out of his eyes, while his own antlers—ebony to blend with his midnight hair and brown skin—had gone crooked after their kiss and subsequent tangle. He’d have to adjust the straps before they toppled off and crashed onto the street. Moonlight shimmered against Oksana’s white skin, and though she was tiny, her head tucking neatly beneath his chin, when they stood side by side he felt positively unstoppable.
His hand strayed to the ring hidden in his pocket. She deserved this, something pretty from her homeland. Yet the words engraved inside, I promise, made it into so much more than a delightful surprise. What did he promise?
She deserved freedom. But he didn’t know how to give her that.
“I could find a way to get medicine whenever I want,” Pran grumbled, ignoring her question. “The Commanders are starved for flattery. With the right words at the right moment, I could—”
“Don’t do anything reckless.” Oksana thumped his shoulder. “Come on, let’s walk it off.”
Her hand on his elbow, she steered him through Mennick’s streets. The autumn breeze was ripe with frost, and on the horizon the emperor’s palace loomed, thorny spires of white marble. Following Oksana, Pran limped past empty markets, silent government halls, and the station where a steam-powered train roared in with wares from all over the Vesimaan nation. He hobbled around Imperial Square with its fire fountains and statues of the emperor and his grandfather the Great King. Both bronze sculptures clutched massive torches, symbols of the fire-summoning soldiers, Tuliikobrets, who’d protected Vesimaa from oppressive invaders, the Scamall nation—then, enabled Vesimaans to conquer their own neighboring countries and kidnap children to feed the ranks of their flame-wielding army.
Last week, a vandal had crowned these statues with velveteen donkey ears.
Pran fiddled with the flint starter tucked in his belt, toying with its metal striker that launched a shard of steel against a scrap of flint embedded in the long ivory handle. “That boy had the right idea with those ears. If I’d seen him, I’d have let him carry on.”
Oksana wrapped her hand around Pran’s, stopping him from hitting the striker hard enough to raise sparks. “If you had, your ashes would be cooling alongside his.”
Her voice wobbled over the words, and she turned toward a road that led out of the city. If they followed it long enough, that road would take them to Horádim, her home country. In a better world, they might make it all the way there, but even the most fleet-footed soldiers couldn’t outpace the Nightmares who chased after deserters.
Another pain stabbed through Pran’s leg, so fierce a whimper wormed from his throat.
Oksana whirled to Pran, holding him upright until his pain ebbed to a dull ache. “One more hour on patrol,” she whispered. “Then I’ll take you back and get your medicine.”
But her gaze flitted once more to that road through the woods, and her shoulders drooped.
Pran was sick with himself, how he couldn’t give her that escape. “Oksana…”
“Enough.” She squeezed his hand, then led him deeper into the city.
They slunk past rows of darkened restaurants smelling of blood sausage and pickled pumpkin. Down a street where the elite and comfortable lived in houses boasting elaborate stone facades and shallow balconies with gilt railings. Occasionally, a curtain twitched in a window as they passed, but no one crossed their path. When the emperor’s monstrous Tuliikobrets prowled, good Vesimaans stayed out of their way.
“Should we turn back?” Pran asked as the streets narrowed. The homes here were crooked and crowded together like too many unwashed Vesimaans packed onto a donkey cart.
“Not yet. If we time our walk perfectly, we’ll pass the fort the moment our shift ends.” Oksana glanced to Pran’s right leg, how he rested hardly any weight on it. They’d have to be efficient in their steps, if he’d get back on his own feet at all. Pain might keep him awake, but it certainly didn’t keep him functional.
Pran cursed, hobbling after Oksana through City Center. Sometimes he didn’t know what the Commanders were playing at. Did it make them feel big, watching young soldiers scramble like rodents after bait? Nights when the pain kept him awake, he’d lie on his bunk and imagine all the terrible things he’d do to the Commanders if he ever mastered fire.
But for now, he clutched Oksana’s arm so tightly his fingers ached while he limped through every step—until a fragment of sound stopped him short. “Do you hear that?”
“What, my stomach grumbling? I swear, if Meal Hall serves cabbage-and-mince stew one more time this week—”
“No.” Pran held his breath, then spun to his left, back toward City Center. Toward the fort. “There. A scream.”
“Probably drunks brawling.” Oksana shrugged, though a shadow passed over her face. “I’ll look. You wait here.” She tried to lean him against the stone wall of another shop gone cold and empty for the night, but Pran grabbed hold of her shoulder when she turned to step away.
“You can’t go alone,” he argued, even as another spasm twisted through his thigh. “Please.”
“If it’s trouble, we have to find out. We have to report it.” Her face crumpled as she spoke the hated words. “And no more of this ‘letting vandals carry on’ talk. I mean it.”
If he were alone tonight, it’d be tempting to join in any revelry, smash down pompous fire fountains, heave burning coals against the palace’s disgustingly pristine walls. But of course he wouldn’t put Oksana in danger, no matter how he admired those who dared defy the emperor.
When they turned the street corner, however, it wasn’t protesters or even drunks brawling in the streets.
A troop of fellow Tuliikobrets, around a dozen of them, swarmed forward. Most of these weren’t in full gear—some were missing their antlers or horns, others the scaled greaves. None had stained their eyes black, either, as all Tuliis were required to do when stepping outside the fort. But their expressions were no less terrifying, faces contorted in boundless fury. Some frothed at the mouth like rabid dogs. The fire-demon emblem adorning their dark uniforms was a dying ember red, in contrast to the violent scarlet of Pran’s and Oksana’s. These were one of the Imp troops, the lowest-ranking soldiers in the fort. None were more than fifteen years old.
Pran and Oksana barely scrambled out of the way before the Imps stampeded down the road. With echoing shrieks they stormed toward the edge of town, sparking jets of flame through the air. Their cries still split the night when the fort alarm tore through the sky, and Pran staggered as the bells’ horrible clanging reverberated through his skull.
Oksana sucked in a breath. “Saints alive. What’s going on?”
Pran’s whole mouth went dry. No more than three or four Imps ever left the fort at a time, and never without a Hellion or Nightmare rank to supervise them. Add to that their screaming frenzy … even in their worst training sessions, Tuliikobrets didn’t behave this way.
“Follow them,” Pran choked out. “The Commanders will expect us to stop them.” They’d be looking for someone to blame, never mind whether the accusations were fair. He and Oksana had to show they’d at least tried to end … whatever this was.
But they couldn’t keep up. He and Oksana were barely back on the street when the Imps had already disappeared up the road into the night’s thick shadows. The way they ran would put to shame even the Nightmares, the highest-ranking of the fort’s troops. And with Pran lurching through every step, running was out of the question for him.
“Go on without me,” he wheezed, though the words stung straight to his bones. Whatever chaos was stirring, he didn’t want to leave Oksana to face it alone. Nor was it a good look if Pran skipped out on patrol, no matter the reason. The Commanders wouldn’t hesitate to punish him. He’d proudly endure their fury arising from his own defiance. Not so much, if he’d failed because they’d left him in too much pain to work.
To his immense relief—not that he’d admit it out loud—Oksana tightened her hold on him. “If another group is behind them, you’ll be trampled. You’re staying with me.”
When his leg buckled, she leaned him against her side, steering back through the roads with crowded, crumbling houses. Doors burst open, rusty hinges screeching as people stomped into the street.
“What’s happening?” someone called.
“They’re crossing the bridge!” another person shouted.
“They’re headed for the village! They’re headed for Linn!”
How could the Imps have gotten so far already? Pran didn’t want to believe it, but the truth made itself known as he and Oksana passed the last row of houses on the city’s edge. Across the Terhi River, Imps charged into the village, gibbering and hurling fireballs toward the stars.
A cottage door slammed open and two villagers darted out, waving farming rakes. “Get away from us!” The shout echoed across the river as the villagers swiped at the Imps with their rakes.
The Imps’ shrieks and howls shifted into snarls. They rounded on those people and the homes behind them, raising fire and casting flames until every thatched-roof cottage blazed.
Pran’s legs buckled. Tuliikobrets never burned whole towns here in Vesimaa—or at least, the Commanders had never ordered them to do so.
“We have to stop them,” Pran said, more urgently this time. If they didn’t bring these Imps to order, there’d be worse problems than delayed medicine or a few lashes for so-called laziness during patrol.
Oksana’s face went slack with shock. “Why would they do this?”
The bigger question was, what would the Commanders do to these Imps after they were caught?
By the time Pran and Oksana crossed the bridge and reached Linn, there was nothing left to save. The entire village was a blaze that climbed toward the thumbnail moon—every house, stable, cart, and watering trough swallowed by fire. A couple of chickens, their feathers smoking, fled the area with indignant squawks, but no one else would escape that wall of flame. Yet the Imps still sparked their flint starters, raising fireballs that they hurled into the inferno with screeches and grating howls.
Oksana lunged forward, snatching the nearest Imp. “Stop! Whatever you’re doing, it’s not worth this.”
Pran hobbled to another Imp, who’d dropped her flint starter and was scrabbling in the dirt after it. He caught her by the shoulder, turning the girl until she met him face to face. “What are you doing?” he demanded, then lowered his voice. “Who organized this?”
Her eyes were feral and unfocused, yet there was something still human about them, free as they were of the midnight-black stain. For a moment, it seemed Pran had gotten through to her, connected with some last reasonable scrap of her mind. She licked her sooty lips, opened her mouth … and screamed. Not words in any language Pran knew, just a screech that knifed against his ears.
None of it kept him from hearing the small cry through the billowing smoke. The Imp Oksana had grabbed was lobbing fireballs at her so fast she had to lunge away, slipping farther and farther from the Imp as she dodged every flame. Oksana yanked her flint starter from her belt and raised a fireball of her own, but her throw went wild when she had to duck another plume jetting toward her head.
“No, you don’t!” Pran barked at that Imp. He whipped the flint starter from his belt and pressed the striker with his thumb. Steel grazed across flint, and hissing sparks sprang to life. As they flared molten-bright against the dark, Pran summoned the heat forever lurking deep inside his lungs, and with one gasping breath it burst out, searing his throat and scalding his tongue. With another huff and hiss, Pran breathed those sparks into billowing flames, then snatched the roaring fireball with his gloved hands, arms tensed to throw.
His leg seized, muscles wrenching as though a demon dwelled inside him, gnawing on his flesh. Pran dropped the fireball and collapsed to his knees, his cry piercing the night.
The Imp who’d attacked Oksana rounded on Pran, an animal hunger sweeping across his face. His lips pulled back in a snarl, and he lifted his flint starter to spark and flame once more.
Bonfires erupted through the air, ravenous and unrestrained. Oksana was flame incarnate, the blazes rising from her outstretched hands and roaring furiously behind her back.
“Enough!” Oksana cast flame after flame until the Imp fled. Then, wielding three fire plumes at once, she chased a handful of Imps out of the village, back toward the bridge. “Get away from here! Go to the fort. Or…” Run away. Her lips shaped the words, but the sounds never left her tongue. The fire in her hands withered, dwindling to tiny tips of flame.
It was too late.
A line of Tuliikobrets charged across the bridge toward the Imps and the inferno. The demons fronting their uniforms gleamed eye-stabbing blue, while their antlers twisted skyward like unholy stags. These soldiers wore masks as well—ones that covered all but their mouths, painted like skin peeling away to reveal bodies made not of muscle and bone, but flame.
The Nightmares had arrived.
Pran’s mouth went as dry as the ashes drifting through the air, and he scrambled to his feet. It was not good to be caught among these Imps while they destroyed a village, and one right outside the emperor’s capital city, no less.
“Sir!” he called to the Nightmare leading the troop.
“Halt!” the man yelled back. “Nobody move.”
The rioting Imps didn’t listen, of course, still screeching, hurling their fireballs, securing their deaths with every spark. In a few steps the Nightmares were on them, knocking the younger Tuliis to the ground with pillars of flame made blue-hot with the tanks of liquid fire—Demon’s Tongue—strapped across their backs.
The lead Nightmare rounded on Pran and Oksana, eyeing the bright red demon on both their uniforms. “Goblin ranks? Report.”
“Pran Nayar and Oksana Artemivna, of the Crimson Sparks troop, sir,” Pran said. Oksana bit her lip as she watched the Imps struggling on the ground. “We were put on night patrol and came to see what the trouble was. To stop it.”
“Well, we’ve ended it,” the Nightmare said, then yelled over his shoulder, “Everyone back to the fort.”
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