Then it hit him. Sudden and overwhelming. More memories of that night crashed against him and scoured his mind with the fires of twenty thousand screaming men. Black fire that burned bone to ash. Rifts in the earth that swallowed buildings whole. Ada.
“Aren…” Cain moaned, voice ragged. “Aren!”
He refused to believe it. Those memories couldn’t be real. They were nightmares.
Cain collapsed to the ground, beating at his skull. His friends fell over him, cradling him in their arms. Men stopped to watch, muttering to themselves. Mithaniel watched from nearby, an unreadable expression on his pale face.
“I’m so sorry,” Adriel whispered. “I’m so sorry, Cain.”
Cain cowered there, tears burning against his cheeks. On the pangs of his pain, Aren’s face flashed before him. His friend’s smile frozen with a bloody arrow in his back.
His friends knelt around him, holding him tight as he buried his face in his hands. He cried there in the shadow of the oak trees.
The days passed as the Alliance marched through the wilderness of Erias. The world was still, quiet save for the pounding of their boots. The Acedens likely had a firm hold over the country by now and yet were nowhere to be seen, save for a few burning villages and corpses left rotting in the roads.
The enemy was out there somewhere—lurking, plotting, killing—and Cain had no choice but to run and hide. Days spent alone in the prison of his thoughts had left him morose. How could they hope to defeat the Acedens with so few men? How could he hope Seraphel would be the answer to their problems? They were surrounded by enemies with no way out. They were low on fighting men, low on provisions, low on morale. They were the last of a broken Alliance.
Cain couldn’t allow himself to give into those dark thoughts. He’d fight for peace, fight for Aren and Adriel and all his friends. He’d kick and scream until his last breath not for his own survival, but for the peace they believed in.
Cain stepped from a valley and signaled his army to halt. A mountain towered over the field ahead and cast its shadow on the mountain range beneath it. Clouds ringed the distant peak, bleeding sheets of icy gray down its sides. Sunlight peeked from the clouds in thin strands of gold.
“Seraphel,” Mithaniel said from his side.
“You better be right about this,” Cain growled.
The man gave a thin smile. “For my sake, I hope I am.”
They reached the foot of the mountain and began their ascent.
The slope grew steeper and steeper, like an endless ramp into the heavens. With the weight of their packs, weapons, and armor, they soon struggled up the slippery shale and rock.
Root and vine tugged at their feet. Shale slipped beneath their boots, sending men rolling down the slope before they could be rescued by their comrades. They climbed higher and higher, into the shadows of clouds and the dark of the setting sun.
Night fell, and still they climbed. Men stumbled about in the pitch black. An icy gale tossed them about, nearly throwing some over the edge of the path and onto the distant unseen rocks. Ominous clouds swirled around them, spewing angry streaks of snow.
The squall rose with greater vehemence, pummeling the Alliance with every step taken. Snow beat at their faces and the wind numbed. Men lost their footing, dragged off screaming into the blinding white.
Then the slope dropped. The knife-like rocks gave way to banks of snow. The path widened and spilled out into a vast stretch of white. The Alliance stepped out onto this snowy expanse, wind wailing across the mountaintop.
A dark mass loomed in the night.
Seraphel. Ancient and ominous, it squatted defiant against the wind’s wrath. Elegant towers and buttresses stretched high over the battlements, the stronghold’s mighty walls scarred and pitted from a millennium of conflict.
Cain approached the fortress and looked up the great oak doors to the empty walkways. He turned to the men behind him. They watched him, questioningly, some accusatory. Had he led them this far only to fail them now? There had to be someone here. He couldn’t afford to fail.
“Hey, you there!” a voice called over the shudder of wind.
Cain gave a silent sigh of relief and looked up to see a sentry atop the wall, torch in hand to illuminate the scored armor of a Morven infantryman. “Let us in, soldier!” he shouted up to the man, gritting his teeth against the lashing wind. “We’ve traveled days to get here. We’re in desperate need of food and water.”
The sentry chuckled. “You came to the wrong place then.”
“Open the damned gate!”
The man simply squinted in the erratic orange glow of his torch. “How can I be certain you are allies? There’s been treason among us; no one is safe from those bastards.”
“I am Cain Taran, one of the Warriors sent to aid the Alliance.”
“And I’m Aurel the Resplendent!” The sentry waved his arms to the towers about him. “Welcome to my golden throne!”
Cain wanted to strangle the sarcasm from the man’s throat. Instead, he settled for a more rational alternative and removed Ceerocai from his back and held it overhead. The nearby soldiers shrank back.
To Cain’s dismay, the man simply laughed. “Ceerocai? Fat lot of good that will do us now. Besides, how do I know you didn’t just kill Taran and take it for yourself?”
Mithaniel stepped forward. “Look, soldier. We have men here that require food, water, and safety. Will you deny us these and leave us for the enemy?”
The sentry opened his mouth—no doubt for another witty response—but Kaelin shoved past Cain and Mithaniel and cut him off. “Verli, shut your piss-drinking face and open these damned doors!”
The sentry, apparently named Verli, grinned in response. “Kaelin? Is that you? I’d recognize your ginger ass in a wildfire, you ugly bastard. Come in, come in!” He turned and waved at someone. “Well, open the blasted gate!”
The oak and bronze doors quickly sprang into life, groaning at the joints from their frosty dormancy. The Alliance shouldered through the gateway and crowded into the courtyard beyond.
Verli bobbed down the stairs and embraced Kaelin with a grin and ample cursing. He eventually turned to the Warriors and paused to study Mithaniel. “You’re that Iscara that helped us back in Morven. You saved my friends. Thank you.” He extended a hand, and Mithaniel shook it.
“We did just like you said,” Verli continued. “We gathered what men we could and marched straight here.” The man looked over their shoulders to the hundreds still pouring into the stronghold. “When you said you were going to stay behind and fight, I didn’t think you could actually do it. You saved the whole garrison?”
Mithaniel grew solemn. “We didn’t save the city or our army… but we saved the Warriors, that’s something at least.”
The soldier gave Cain a glance. “Yes, well, I don’t know if they’re much good for anything now, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to have more men. Follow me, Lord Murken will want to see you.” He beckoned for the Warriors to follow. Cain turned with an order for his men, but they already moved off in search of a warm meal and a fire. Yet another reminder that he didn’t have the authority he’d once commanded.
Kaelin gave him a smirk and moved off, barking orders to his men.
The Warriors followed Verli across the entrance court and passed what remained of a statue. Two feet of ancient stone stood on a high pedestal, snapped at the ankles as if by some great force. Its bare toes poked out from a covering of snow like a pair of ratty old boots.
Dark buildings hung ominous about them as they walked. They stretched like shadows into the night, their fractured timber roofs creaking in the breeze. Snores rose from the crumbling walls and the glow of fires flickered in the frosted windows.
Verli led them down another broken brick road to a small stone keep and knocked on the door.
The door soon cracked open, trading a burst of warm air for a swell of cold. “By the Towers, what do you want, soldier?” a man bellowed from within.
/> “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but—”
“Spit it out, I haven’t got all night!”
“Mithaniel Fallon and the Warriors have arrived, Lord Murken. They bring reinforcements.”
Silence followed. The door then swung wide and a man filled its frame. The portly fellow gave a grunt to acknowledge the newcomers. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Come in, you’re letting out all the warmth.”
The Warriors and Mithaniel shuffled past Murken who banged the door shut with a huff. His cheeks simmered red like the hot coals of the nearby hearth.
The man grunted at them before turning to stoke the fireplace, filling the room with heat once again.
“So. Warriors.” His jowls jostled with each word. “Why are you here?”
Cain studied the lord. He’d met a few nobles in his past; many of them somehow avoided fighting in the war. This man certainly looked like one of those. Fat, soft, and arrogant. “We have nowhere else to go. Mithaniel informed us this is where we were to fall back if Morven were to fall. It did. So here we are.”
Murken snorted. “They stopped teaching that nonsense years ago.”
“Nonsense? Then why are you here?”
“Because I’m older than I look.”
Silas buried a laugh behind a fist. Cain raised a brow at his friend. “So, no one else will come?”
The man walked across the room to a table. He picked a strip of meat from a platter and chewed thoughtfully. He chased this down with a hearty glug of wine before replying, “Yes, we are all that is left. One thousand tired, bloody, and frightened men. Our army is spread across the country, torn apart by insurrection and broken by the very men who seek that end. If I were so bold, I might say that they have succeeded. We never even knew who we were fighting.” He drained his goblet. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. We’ll all be dead in the end…”
“The Acedens are not like us,” Cain said. “They are full of fire that no amount of blood can extinguish. But we have hope.”
“And what fool’s hope is that?”
Cain pulled Ceerocai from its baldric and slammed it onto the table with a thud. “Their leader, Iscarius, wants the sword of Abaddon. So long as we have Ceerocai, we have our hope.” He choked down his own doubts, hoping he’d sounded confident enough for this Murken.
The fat lord cackled, his neck wobbling. He stuffed another strip of meat between his cheeks. “You amuse me, Cain Taran. You weave a grand tale to instill some sense of hope in your men to keep your ass alive. Admirable, but foolish. There is no hope. Four hundred years of war and it all ends here on a shitty mountaintop.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Call it a fleeting moment of patriotism, optimism. Or foolishness. Either way, it’s in the past. I’m here out of self-preservation. We all are. This is the only safe place left in Erias. Once the enemy comes, we will surrender.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Murken slapped his ample belly in amusement. “Oh, really? And who are you to say otherwise? You are a Kaanosi with no authority. What we do here in Erias is no concern of yours.”
“It is my concern. If Erias falls, then Tarsha falls. You have the chance to rally your men, to regroup and resupply, to stand firm here against the enemy. This war is not over.”
“It is over. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
“I—”
“No! I will not allow my men to die for nothing. We will surrender. You’d be wise to do the same.” He wiped his hands on his robes. “You and your men will want to be leaving tomorrow. We don’t have the supplies to keep you here.”
Cain suppressed a growl. “This place is a supply fortress. Where are the supplies?”
Murken snorted again as he seemed to have a habit of doing. He reached for his pitcher of wine. “There haven’t been supplies here for years, no food, water; the place has long been stripped clean. We only have what we carried in.”
Cain froze for a moment. How could they continue fighting without provisions? Was this really the end?
The portly man watched him over the lip of his goblet. “Still want to stay?” he asked with a smirk.
A Final Hope
Mithaniel stood on the cliff’s edge like a jutting shadow amid the swirling whites.
The world rolled out like a scroll before him. A sea of color fell over the earth, its shades of grays and blues undulating through every tree, hill, and mountain. The world was a beautiful place in these rare moments of quiet, that brief time suspended before a sunrise. It was in these moments where he could pretend everything was alright, where the world wasn’t a place of ugly death and senseless violence. But he knew he couldn’t hide from the truth. From himself.
He had a job to do.
Mithaniel squinted at the horizon, wind slapping against his face. He smiled as he spotted a speck in the distance.
A great white falcon soared toward him and landed on his outstretched glove with a screech. The Iscara brushed the raptor’s back as it wolfed down its meal of sparrow. Once it finished, he hooded the bird and looked around.
He untied a small scrap of paper from the falcon’s leg. He unrolled the parchment and read the hastily-scrawled note.
He crumpled the letter and paused before tossing it over the edge of the mountain, letting the wind carry it away.
“What’s this?” a voice broke the silence behind him.
Mithaniel’s heart leapt in his chest. He turned to see Cain approach.
The Warrior watched him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Is that bird yours?”
Mithaniel nodded. “This is my gyrfalcon, Sylva. I lost her to the hunt for a time, but she always knows where to find me. She must not have missed me too much though; she was only gone for two weeks,” he chuckled. He could only hope he’d kept the surprise from his voice. Had Cain seen the letter?
Cain looked over the striking creature. Sylva’s brilliant white shimmered in the dawn. She extended her chest for him to run his fingers through her downy feathers.
“I didn’t think you for a falconer,” Cain said as he stroked the gyrfalcon’s wing.
Mithaniel smirked. “I didn’t think you for the hero of the Alliance.”
The Warrior bowed his head. “There are no heroes, not anymore.” Well, this man was nothing if not melancholy.
“What are you doing here, Mithaniel?” Cain asked suddenly.
He brushed Sylva with an absent hand, weighing his options. If Cain had seen the letter, wouldn’t he have immediately taken Mithaniel into custody? Or worse, try to kill him? Malecai had once briefed him on Taran. The Warrior was supposedly selfish, hot-headed, compulsive. The man that stood before Mithaniel now was none of that. Had they underestimated Cain?
“Helping Tarsha,” he answered, hoping he wasn’t being too vague. “Malecai’s Acedens have gone too far. They murder and burn and rape and enslave. You’d start to think differently about yourself too if you were in my boots.” Mithaniel paused, biting off more words. He hadn’t intended to say so much. Why had he?
“And how do I know you’re not just a spy?”
Mithaniel frowned, wondering if the man was truly as blunt as he was trying to let on. “The blood on my hands should be enough to convince you.”
“Blood is easy to come by,” the Warrior replied. “A wise man once told me that it’s trust that is hard to find. That need is all we have.”
What did Cain mean by that? Mithaniel was beginning to think this man was a far different person than the one Malecai had met.
The Warrior walked past him and gazed out over Seraphel. Mithaniel stopped at his side and looked over the buildings now visible in the daytime. He wished he still couldn’t see them.
The buildings he’d thought were barracks and armories and smithies were little more than sticks in the dirt, their roofs dust and rot. Debris littered the fortress from sieges past, scattered across the webs of cracked and pitted roads. Smoke poured fro
m the shattered windows and drafty roofs of the barracks, not from hearths, but from sooty fires on barren floors.
The place was a shithole. He needed to finish what he’d come here for, and quickly. He certainly didn’t plan on dying here.
Cain turned to him. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
“Work?”
The Warrior nodded, still gazing out over the dilapidated buildings. “Aye. We need to rebuild what we can, bolster this place against the enemy. If you wish to prove your worth, then you can start by repairing the barracks. They’re in sore need of it, and I won’t have my men sleeping in rat nests.”
Mithaniel frowned again. Did the man know what was coming for him? “So, you plan to stay here then?”
“Yes,” Cain sighed. “I will hold this place, alone if I must. This time, I lay the trap.” His hand twitched for Ceerocai. “This time, Iscarius will come to me.”
“Is that everything?” Cain asked as he kicked a bone aside.
“I think so,” said Isroc. He scribbled another quick line on a scroll in hand as Cain looked around.
Rows of barrels and crates covered every inch of the storehouse. Well, the building with the most intact roof, anyway. Supplies lined the walls and piled high to form a haphazard mountain in the middle of the room. The mound of barrels and bags nearly blotted out the afternoon light that trickled through the gaps in the ceiling.
“It’s plain and simple, we don’t have enough.” Isroc looked down at his scroll with a frown. “This was the last room. All of them might as well be empty.”
A voice echoed from somewhere in the sea of refuse. “Not empty!” Silas burst from the mound of debris, barrels rolling as he stood tall with hands raised in triumph. “I found a hat,” he exclaimed as he donned the moth-eaten cap. He dove back into the fray.
Isroc turned to Cain. “The bastards only have enough provisions for themselves. That won’t last long the way they’re using them up.”
“We can’t blame them for that, Isroc. They escaped Morven with their lives, grabbing extra rations of tack bread wouldn’t have been their top priority.”
The Shadow of War Page 4
