Chapter 7 - THE BORDER DRAWN IN BLOOD
Dawn broke over the Western Canyon in a haze of pale, icy grey.
The Imperial Third Legion had deployed in full battle array across the eastern mouth of the canyon. Ten thousand men in gleaming plate armor stood in rigid, terrifying silence. Rows of heavy iron shields formed an impenetrable wall, backed by thousands of pikemen and mobile ballista towers.
General Vance sat on his armored warhorse at the center of the line, his face grim. "When the sun clears the ridge, give the order to advance. We will cleanse this canyon once and for all."
"General!" a scout shouted from the forward observation post. "Movement at the western end of the canyon!"
Vance raised his brass spyglass. His heart sank.
Emerging from the morning fog was the vanguard of the Western Resistance—three thousand infantrymen, axes and swords ready. But they were not advancing in a charging formation.
They were marching in a slow, measured parade step.
And walking at the very front of the rebel formation, side by side, were three figures.
Commander Bren of the Resistance. Isra of Renth. And Emperor Dean of Kalith.
Flying slowly above them, her broad black wings beating the cold morning air, was Kira.
"What in the name of the Gods..." Vance whispered, dropping his spyglass. "Hold the line! DO NOT FIRE!"
A wave of confused muttering rippled through the ten thousand imperial soldiers. Men lowered their crossbows, staring in utter disbelief as their Emperor walked toward them, unarmored, side by side with the chief rebel of the West.
The two forces came to a halt fifty paces apart in the narrow gorge.
Emperor Dean stepped forward, his voice echoing off the canyon walls like thunder. "General Vance! Imperial Third Legion! Hold your arms!"
General Vance dismounted his horse and trotted forward, his sword sheathed, falling to one knee in the cold mud before Dean. "Your Majesty! We... we received reports from the capital! Lord Chamberlain Malakor declared you dead! He sent orders commanding us to eradicate the western rebels!"
"Lord Malakor is dead, General," Dean announced, pulling the forged logbook from his belt and holding it high for all to see. "He was a traitor who manufactured this war for his own personal gain. He forged imperial commands, orchestrated the massacre at Renth four years ago, and ordered the ambush in this very canyon yesterday!"
Dean tossed the heavy logbook down into the mud at Vance’s feet. Vance opened the ledger, his eyes skimming the scraped parchment, the forged wax seals, and the official imperial records.
"By the Gods..." Vance breathed, his face turning pale. "We... we were fighting for a lie?"
"You were fighting for a traitor's ledger," Isra said, stepping forward beside Dean. "Four years of death. Four years of burned villages and fallen soldiers. All so a man in velvet robes could grow richer in Highspire."
General Vance slowly stood up. He looked at the three thousand resistance fighters standing across the mud, then at his own ten thousand legionnaires. He saw the same exhaustion, the same grief, and the same horror reflected in the eyes of every man present.
Vance drew his longsword.
Every soldier in the canyon held their breath.
Vance turned toward his legion, raised his blade into the sky, and shouted at the top of his lungs: "LEGION! SHEATHE YOUR BLADES!"
A sound like falling rain echoed through the canyon as ten thousand imperial soldiers slid their swords back into their scabbards. On the opposite side, Commander Bren held up his hand, and three thousand western fighters lowered their axes.
For the first time in four long years, the border was silent.
Dean turned to Isra. Her eyes were brimmed with tears, a soft, disbelieving laugh escaping her lips as she looked at the peaceful canyon.
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"You did it," Dean murmured. "You stole my dragon, and you saved my empire."
"No," Isra said, looking up as Kira glided down to land beside them, sweeping her massive head over both of them in a warm, affectionate nudge. "We saved each other."
