Shadows of Destiny

by Rachel Lee

  Impulsively, Tom reached out and gripped Archer’s forearm. “How many times have you and the others kept me from bloodying my own hands? Sometimes I wish still that I were a warrior, for I feel so useless with nothing to offer but an occasional riddle of prophecy. But you must not count yourself less than others, for we have all made war in our own ways, have we not? To this day the fight goes on. And now we have a chance to right a very old wrong.”

  “Time will show us. But rest assured, Tom, I am not the man I was meant to be. Nor am I certain that I can become that man, a man who would have been worthy of Theriel.”

  Rising, Archer strode away into the night, just as a misty rain began to fall, hissing and spitting on the fire. Tom stared into the flames, the slits of his leather mask making their light tolerable, and had the uneasy feeling that he could see a laughing face within the fire.

  His mind drifted back to the horrible images in the Eshkaron Treysahrans, and once again he knew unease. A mind that could create those images, and hold forth such despair and bitterness, and even hatred…That wasn’t the Archer he thought he knew now, but yet that was still Archer.

  It would be wise, he decided finally, to watch very carefully. At this time he could not guess who would be the betrayer he foresaw in his dim visions of things to come.

  It might well be Archer.

  During the night, heavy sheets of rain fell. Men who had no tents huddled beneath shields and any other protection they could find. The desert rarely saw more than an occasional light rainfall, and this night’s storm, crackling with thunder and lightning, caused a lot of uneasy comment.

  The desert thirsted, of course, but not even its dryness could suck up the torrents, and soon small rivers and pools had formed in every hollow.

  Together in Tess’s tent, the three Ilduin listened to the hammering rain on the cloth above and bent their heads together, trying to sort through a welter of feelings and images that had begun to flit into their minds.

  “I feel others reaching for us,” Sara said. “Other Ilduin. I cannot tell if they are corrupt or not. Yet I feel that they are being stirred by events.”

  “I, too,” agreed Cilla. “I wish there was some test we could apply, for if we ally with the wrong sister, we could abet the evil that comes.”

  Tess nodded, and poured a hot, bitter herb brew into stone cups for her sisters. It reminded her of something she had forgotten, but as usual she could not summon the memory. She had virtually given up trying to remember, certain only that Elanor would reveal what she chose when she chose. Until then, she, Tess, was a pawn in a game the gods played.

  “This rain is unnatural,” she said as she put the pot down on the folding table. “Do you feel it? It is no more natural than the winter has been.”

  The other two nodded.

  “But it is more than unnatural,” she continued, folding her hands and closing her eyes. “It is…” She trailed off, caught by some sort of strange image. “I see something.”

  Rising, she went to the door of her tent and stepped out into the deluge. Raising her gaze to the heavens, watching the flashes of lightning, she tried to grasp what it was she was sensing, seeing.

  “Tess?” The other two had followed her and now stood beside her, their robes growing drenched. “What is it?”

  “I see…I see…”

  And indeed she did see something, though exactly what it was she could not be sure. It was as if a golden net were cast over the sky, but while it should have been even and beautiful, it was blackened and twisted in places. Some part of her rebelled violently at the ugliness, and she tried to imagine it whole and beautiful again, unscarred by whatever had damaged it.

  Because in her deepest being, she knew those scars were unnatural.

  “Tess?”

  She hardly heard her companions. The part of her that had healed so many wounds seemed to leap from her heart and reach out to that scarred web. As she stared at it, it gradually began to heal, growing golden and straight once again.

  The rain stopped. She didn’t notice. The sky cleared. She didn’t see. She saw only the web above her, and suddenly knew she had revealed herself. A blackness began to spread out from the far end of the web, to the north, approaching…approaching.

  Terror filled her and her essence snapped backward, returning to her physical form, seeking to hide therein from whatever sent that blackness crawling toward her.

  Weakness filled her and she began to sink to the ground.

  “Tess?” Sara and Cilla caught her, their grips painfully tight. “Tess? Talk to us!”

  The bite of their fingers kept her conscious just long enough to say, “I have seen the warp and woof. I have seen how he blights it. I have seen that he comes for me.”

  Then blessed darkness claimed her.

  Archer arrived as soon as he received Cilla’s summons. With him came Ratha and Tuzza. “What ails the lady?” Archer demanded as he stepped into the tent.

  The rain had ceased abruptly, but the skies, which had cleared so suddenly, now dumped their endless burden once again. A river ran under the tent now, and at this rate would soon wash it away.

  “I am not sure,” Sara said. “We saw her step into the rain and stare up at the sky. We felt…power emanate from her, although it was unlike anything we know. Then she collapsed.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Something about seeing the warp and woof, and that he is coming for her.”

  Archer’s head jerked. “She spoke of the warp and woof?”

  “Aye.”

  Ilduin and commanders alike stared at him. It was Cilla who spoke first. “You know what it means.”

  Archer knelt swiftly beside Tess and touched her cheeks. “More blankets. She is wet and growing cold.”

  The women immediately obeyed as best they could. It wasn’t as if this army carried huge supplies with it.

  “Archer,” Sara demanded, “what did she mean?”

  “She is indeed the Weaver.”

  “Most of us already knew that.”

  He lifted his face and looked directly at his four companions. Every line of him was stamped with anguish. “She has seen the warp and woof. The fabric that underlies our world, the fabric upon which the gods built all of this.”

  “And?”

  “Of course Ardred wants her. If she can manipulate the warp and woof, then she is as powerful as the gods themselves.”

  Sara hastened to shake her head. “I think she stopped the storm, then she collapsed. She is limited by her own strength.”

  “But what if her strength grows? No one would be able to stop her, not even the gods themselves.”

  Silence filled the tent, except for the renewed drumming of the rain. Archer bent and brushed his hand gently against Tess’s cheek before rising to face the rest of the group.

  “Hear this and obey,” Archer said. “Whatever else is at risk in the days to come, she must never fall into the Enemy’s hands. Never.”

  He scanned their faces and saw horror, discomfort, a mixture of unpleasant feelings.

  “I repeat,” he said, “she must never fall into the Enemy’s hands. Not even should it cost her her life.”

  Then he strode from the tent, leaving the others to exchange looks and wonder if he was right.

  Or if he could even be trusted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The morning dawned clear and cool. The air, denuded of dust by the nighttime rain, was unnaturally crisp, and even with aging eyes Tuzza could pick out details in the column of men descending from a distant ridge. The gold-and-black lion’s-paw pennants were clearly visible.

  “They are Alezzi’s men,” Tuzza said.

  Beside him, Ratha, Jenah and Archer stood silent. The Bozandari relief force was traveling faster than they had anticipated. Though contact was still a day away, it was clear that their final preparations would have to be made quickly. Too quickly. But such was too often the nature of war.

  “I had hoped to
meet them three leagues farther north,” Jenah said, pointing at the map he had placed on the ground, each of its corners held by a rock. “There is a pass where we could have held a defensible position. But they are already descending from that pass.”

  “Alezzi would have seen the same situation on his map,” Tuzza said. “He is a gifted commander and not to be underestimated. Do not expect him to walk into any defile with his main body in the lead. He will have scout patrols ranging far to the front, as well as on his flanks.”

  “And we can’t use his patrols against him as we did with you,” Jenah said. “We want to avoid combat if at all possible.”

  Tuzza nodded. “We cannot afford to contact his patrols. His patrol commanders will have authority to make probing attacks, to determine our strength and positions. We must parley with him before that happens.”

  “You fear your men will not fight, brother?” Ratha asked.

  Tuzza studied Ratha’s face. There was no indication that the Anari was speaking with contempt. If he doubted the courage of Tuzza’s men or their loyalty to him, there was no sign of it. He simply recognized what they all knew: whether Tuzza’s Snow Wolves would be willing to kill their Bozandari brethren was an open question, and one best not put to the test.

  “There are likely many in my legion who have blood brothers or cousins in Alezzi’s legion,” Tuzza said. “He himself is my blood cousin. I would grieve at his death, and whether it was my sword that felled him would matter not at all in my heart. To slay his own is not a weight I would wish upon any man.”

  Ratha seemed to study him before nodding. “You are right, my brother. Such a battle would offer no hope of victory, for there would be no victors. There would be only the dead and those whose souls have died while their bodies remain alive.”

  At this, Archer visibly winced. “I need to consult with Lady Tess,” he said before walking away.

  Tuzza exchanged looks with the two Anari who remained, but their faces were unreadable. Either they knew not what lay in Archer’s mind, or they declined to share it. And it mattered not which at this point. Tuzza studied the map, trying to estimate how many patrols Alezzi would send out, and their likely routes of march.

  “In terrain this rugged, Bozandari doctrine would call for Alezzi to break one of his foot regiments—a quarter of his force—into patrol groups of one or two companies. That would yield six such groups. Our standard practice is to have one to the rear, one each on the flanks, and three fanning out to the front.”

  Jenah nodded. “He would not use his horses for such?”

  “He would if he were campaigning in the Adasen Basin, to the north,” Tuzza said. “But he will have learned, as I did, that horses cannot move swiftly in these rocky lands. Too many of my men’s mounts had to be put down with broken legs. However, he will have several mounted couriers with each patrol group. One or more of them will break off immediately when the patrol makes contact, to report the news to Alezzi.”

  “So we cannot risk even to ambush a patrol,” Ratha said, his brow furrowed. “I must tell my men to avoid them completely. This limits their capacity to scout for us.”

  Tuzza nodded. “That is precisely the purpose of our patrol doctrine, my brother. There is a saying in our officer academy—‘He who wins the skirmish wins the main.’ And now we are forced to concede the patrol skirmishes, to retreat and evade, even at the risk of permitting him to find and calculate our main body. If we cannot carry the parley, I fear for our prospects in battle.”

  “We must disperse our main force,” Jenah said.

  Tuzza shook his head. “We risk too much. Alezzi can fall upon each camp and defeat us in detail.”

  “You have forgotten the Ilduin,” Jenah said. “That was our advantage in the prior campaign. We separated our columns then, and communicated through our three Ilduin. Thus were we able to coordinate our columns, and bring them together quickly when needed.”

  “My brother is right,” Ratha said to Tuzza. “You say that we cannot win the skirmish, but we can if we create an illusion for his patrols to report. We must evade them for only one day, yes?”

  Tuzza nodded. “Yes. By tomorrow his main body will be close enough that we can approach for a parlay.”

  “We withdraw now,” Ratha said. “We withdraw in three separate groups, each far enough that his patrols cannot reach us until nighttime. Then we tell each squad to pitch three tents and build three campfires.”

  Tuzza smiled. “Alezzi’s patrols would not attack so large a force. Instead, they will report to him that he is outnumbered. We both avoid the skirmish and give him more reason to avoid the main. It is a brilliant stratagem.”

  “Then it is agreed,” Jenah said. “Let us issue the orders. The Snow Wolves will not fail.”

  “No,” Tuzza said, feeling more comfortable than he had in some time. “We will not fail.”

  Ezinha’s hand gripped the sword tightly, betraying the tension that filled him with dread. While he had served his required time in the Bozandari army, he had done so as a healer and not as a soldier. He had never killed a man, and he was not certain that he could. Yet on this night, he knew, he might well have to do just that.

  Count Drassa Langel, the emperor’s minister of war, had urged the court to declare the Anari rebels guilty of treason. All rebels now lay under sentence of death, and in the absence of the rebels themselves, the sentence was to be carried out on their families. The emperor had issued a declaration of martial law, and Langel’s troops were now moving through the city with brutal efficiency, rounding up Anari whose kin were suspected of participating in the rebellion.

  The rebels had until tomorrow at noon to surrender themselves. If not, well over a thousand Anari—including women and children—would be impaled on stakes throughout the city, to die slowly of thirst and exposure and agony, their bodies left for birds and then animals to pick clean, as a symbol to anyone else who might consider challenging the Bozandari throne. Not a single street corner in Bozandar would escape the screams of the dying, nor the stench of the dead.

  Ezinha had long known Langel, for the count had been a friend of his father’s. And, like his father, Langel was a cruel and hard man. This was no idle bluff. Nor, Ezinha suspected, would the surrender of the rebels forestall the executions. If the Anari would not be docile and loyal slaves, then Langel meant to exterminate them to the last.

  Mihabi and the other rebels knew this. They would not surrender themselves, and Ezinha had not challenged their decision. Nearly three hundred now sheltered on his estate and he knew there were at least five other Bozandari homes that held an equal number. Their leaders had convened at Ezinha’s house for a council of war. He could see no other option. Better to die in battle, fighting for their lives and freedom, than to hang for days, dying by inches on a wooden stake.

  Lacking military training, the rebel attack plan was born of simplicity, aided by the dispositions of Langel’s troops. They had established a dozen camps throughout the city, each with a hundred or more Anari prisoners guarded by a company of Bozandari legionnaires.

  But not all of the Bozandari would be guarding the prisoners, all of whom were bound and helpless. Instead, many were busy erecting the stakes upon which the condemned would be placed, rounding them so that the victims would slip slowly down onto them, screaming as the unyielding wood pushed up through their bowels until, days later, the pressure would make it mercifully impossible for them to breathe.

  It was the most brutal form of all the Bozandari methods of execution, and Ezinha was ashamed that his own people were capable of such cruelty. He could almost grasp how the legionnaires themselves, hardened by the privations of battle, could perform their tasks. What he could not fathom, and what truly sickened him, was how other people could bear to watch such a horror. And yet he knew they would come out by the thousands, fueled by a bloodlust that repulsed Ezinha, jeering at the victims, cheering at their agonized screams, groaning with disappointment when death finally relieve
d the suffering.

  He had overcome his qualms about fighting such a people. They might be his own in blood, but he could not place himself among such men. If his choice was to stand with the crowds and delight in the pain of innocents, or to take up a sword and join the Anari in battle, it was an easy choice indeed.

  The rebels had split into groups, each group assigned one of the compounds where the Anari prisoners were held, each man carrying two swords, one with which to fight and another that he might arm those he freed. Then rescuers and rescued together would fight their way out of the city, taking with them any other Anari who sought freedom and were willing to join the march. They would assemble on a hilltop two days’ march west of the city, and there they would prepare to march south to their homeland.

  Although Ezinha was no soldier, he believed it was a good plan. He also recognized that it was the only path left open to them. Now—as he crouched in the darkness and watched two legionnaires joke between them as they slathered suet over the end third of the stake, explaining to a young Bozandari boy that they were making it slick to ensure that, once impaled, its victim could gain no purchase with his or her feet—he realized it was also the right path. The boy was nodding eagerly. Ezinha had never felt hatred until this night, watching these two men. He felt it now.

  Mihabi grasped his arm and nodded into the darkness. Ezinha could barely see the three Anari in the alley across the way, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce.

  Ezinha looked in his brother’s eyes and saw the same fury. Boys should not be taught such hateful skills, and whether these legionnaires themselves were taught as boys did not matter. They were men now, not merely performing but rejoicing in their duty to inflict agony and death, passing their twisted hearts on to a child who could not be more than six years of age.

  If there was ever to be peace, if the Bozandari were ever to return to their noble roots, such legacies must end. And this one would end tonight.

  The sound of hammer against cymbal, beginning in the center of the city, was too faint to hear at first. But it spread quickly, as a woman at each signal post stood poised to repeat it as soon as she heard it. Within seconds, the sound of clanging cymbals had rippled through the city, to be joined immediately by the sounds of battle.