The Black Gods War

every night since she arrived at the canyon. It still made no sense. The long record of history was clear: once a Haizzem commands Rezzia’s armies, historic victories come swiftly.
    Pawelon’s ancient citadel would have to fall soon. Even though Caio wasn’t mentally ready to assume the role of Dux Spiritus and kill the Pawelon pigs, her father’s strategy was still sound.
    Once Caio enters the valley, the gods-damned war should be won within a year, if not a moon. Not ten.
    Lucia awoke in a panic, finding her sheets drenched in blood.
    She squirmed and tossed the sticky linens to the floor. She stood on the opposite side of the bed, threw her robe down, and examined her body.
    I haven’t bled. This isn’t my blood.
    Her fingers feverishly scratched down her arms and legs, trying to erase the foul stains. Failing, she grabbed a pair of long black gloves off the table beside her bed and stretched them from her hands up to her muscled upper arms. From her great-grandmother’s antique chest, she removed a brown cloak. She quickly tied it around herself, then ran to the double doors and pushed them open.
    Outside, ten soldiers stood tall and disciplined. The brisk air felt cruel against her face. In a few hours the desert would feel like a dry sauna again.
    “Have any of you been here the entire night?”
    “Yes, Your Grace.”
    “Did anyone enter my yurt?”
    “No, Your Grace, is something troubling you?”
    Lucia stepped inside and slammed the doors. Disgust stirred in her belly. She looked across the room at the bloody sheets and felt her face twitching. Her mind raced, wondering if The Black One had spilled the blood himself.
    A warpriest’s voice rang out over the camp, calling the men to morning prayer.
    “Bring me warm water and washcloths,” she said through the door.

    ~~~~~

    Lucia scrubbed at the obstinate stains. Once certain she’d washed the blood away, she dragged the sopping cloth along the firm contours of her beige skin and recalled a bitter montage of recent dreams. She ran her dripping fingers down her accursed arms—now forced to bear even greater burdens.
    I have to tell Caio. There’s no other option.
    She stood with sudden conviction and dressed herself, looking to the goddess Ysa’s martial relics for courage. Ysa’s sword, shield, and silver armor rested on their decorated black walnut stand. She reminded herself how many royal men and women throughout more than a thousand years of history had carried these objects, and of all the miracles they had invoked with the blessed metal to protect Rezzia.
    Her round shield scintillated with hundreds of tiny crimson and amber gemstones forming ten concentric circles, a geometrical work of art. Ysa’s white sword was immaculately symmetrical, made of an inscrutable metal that still had not been re-created anywhere in the world known as Gallea. Bright yellow and white stripes curled around the sword’s grip ten times until they met a golden, crystalline pommel.
    Lucia closed her eyes and asked Ysa for firm resolve, then sat at her small desk littered with correspondence. She stared at a blank parchment, breathed deeply, and picked up the quill. She labored to compose the first half of the letter, then reached a burning pitch as long-withheld truths erupted onto the page.

    Beloved Caio, my Haizzem,

    It is the beginning of my eighth day in the valley. It is another world, this war, like the tales of Lord Danato’s underworld hell. By Ysa’s grace, I have not been injured, though the battles have been fierce.
    Finally, yesterday, something occurred to support my sanity. I celebrated your ascent to Dux Spiritus with our soldiers and warpriests. We remained in our camp and worshiped together before we saw the great flash when the sun reached its zenith. Such a deep silence took root in us, a hundred thousand praying together. I will always regret not having been there for the ceremony, but my abilities have been needed during father’s absence.
    I do not wish to put any more weight on your shoulders, but the fighting has been gruesome, and our Strategos Duilio, who is remarkable even in his old age, says Pawelon’s archers have become even more deadly over the last year. It is as if we have been cursed by the dark spirits they command. With you here, I know this will change. Everyone I have talked to believes in you, and will rejoice in seeing you.
    I must tell you something else now, Caio, a grave thing. I have never wanted to