The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  Moran’s laugh cut through the trees. “Three? I don’t believe it!”

  “Aye, it’s true!” Silas grinned. “They were sisters! I’ll never forget their red hair.”

  Isroc pushed his thoughts aside and smirked at his friend. “I bet you don’t even remember their names.”

  “Of course I do!” Moran and Isroc watched him for a moment. “Well, I don’t have to prove it to you.”

  “That’s because it never happened,” Isroc whispered to Moran. The two men laughed.

  “I hear southern girls are the fruit to pick,” Moran said. “Is this true?” he turned to Adriel trekking through the rocks behind them.

  Adriel glowered at him. “Mind your tongue, you dirty old man, or I’ll mind it for you.”

  Moran snorted. “Easy, woman. I only jest.”

  “And I hear the same of the northern girls,” Silas said.

  Moran nodded his bushy head. “Perhaps we seek sweeter fields only to find the sweetest were always among us. I long for the company of a woman. I’ve been a soldier for too many weary days. I’d even settle for seeing the same damn pair of tits every day.”

  “I’ve been there,” laughed Isroc. “It’s not as fun as it sounds.”

  “Was she a southern girl?” Moran probed.

  “From Charun. Ramoch. She had red hair,” he chuckled at Silas. “And my daughter, Claire, she had such fiery hair like her mother. She refused to let me cut it, so it grew down to her waist. She always snagged sticks in it when she went out to play, it looked like a bird’s nest. And she would build little walls in the snow and wait with a pile of snowballs until the boys came by…” Isroc dropped his gaze. Those were memories he couldn’t afford to dig back up.

  The group fell into an awkward silence. Behind them, men talked and sang despite the cold and hunger. Their laughter pierced the icy dusk. Likely, they were just happy to be doing something, even if that meant weeks of hard marching. They thirsted for a fight. Well, Isroc would give that to them.

  Moran pulled his silver-etched lyre from his rucksack and plucked a few chords. Soldiers began to clap and sing along to the vibrant tune. The general’s fat fingers strummed the instrument with an uncharacteristic deftness, the swift, bubbly notes floating through the trees.

  Isroc watched his army stamp their boots and beat their shields. Every clap, shout, and note resounded in the hills. He should have stopped them; they couldn’t afford to give away their position. But he couldn’t bring himself to give the order. They’d all lost so much, they deserved a moment of respite from their worries and fears. They deserved happiness, even if it didn’t last.

  The soldiers at the front of the procession suddenly fell quiet. Silence snaked its way along the columns and Moran’s song cut off mid-note. The army stood frozen, every soldier staring forward stone-faced and whispering among themselves.

  Something was horribly, horribly wrong. “Silas, with me.”

  The two Warriors sprinted along the formation. They rounded a hill and came to the front of the army.

  Braygon lay ahead. Or rather, what was left of it.

  Isroc’s heart sank. “No…” He refused to accept it. The last trace of his father’s legacy. Gone. “Damn it, no!”

  “Son of a bitch!” Silas cursed, chasing after him. The two ran across the outcropping, the waters of a large lake breaking against the cliff beneath Braygon.

  Isroc rushed through the broken gate and stumbled to a stop.

  The charred remains of soldiers littered the fortress. Blackened. Broken. The stench of burned flesh and ash hung thick in the air. Isroc looked out over the razed buildings to the lake, its gentle waves rippling in the first light of the moon. How could this happen, the elite West Riders so carelessly wiped out? He willed a foot forward and slogged through the remnants of his father’s stronghold.

  He stopped before a skeleton, the warped armor of the West Riders encasing its remains like a crucible. The skeleton clutched another pile of bones, one much smaller. A child.

  Isroc collapsed in their ashes. The tears refused to come. He was stunned, cold with disbelief.

  Silas quietly approached. “Isroc…”

  “What haven’t they taken from us, Silas?” he muttered after a time. “They had children. They had families.” He gestured at the bodies before him. “And they just murdered them all.” The tears finally came, streaming down his face.

  Silas placed a hand on his shoulder. “They haven’t taken our will to fight. So, let’s go kill the bastards.”

  Archers aimed their bows over the curtain wall. Soldiers rushed along the wall walk with torches in hand, lighting broadheads. The archers raised their flaming arrows to the stars and awaited Cain’s command. Somewhere behind him, Murken shouted for them to drop their arms and surrender.

  Fifty Knights of Iscara stood before the fortress like poised daggers. They waited, cloaked in darkness. A figure stepped from the Iscara lines, his daunting frame covered in black plate and face hidden behind a great helm.

  “Give us Cain Taran!” His voice boomed in the quiet, cold and cutting. “Give him to me, and I will spare you all.”

  Cain turned to the nearby soldiers who whispered among themselves and cast anxious glances back at him. Were they really considering this man’s proposal? Of course they were. They were trapped, scared, starving. Was it any wonder that they thought sacrificing one man preferable to the inevitable and all too likely alternative?

  He met Murken’s gaze below. His men surrounded him, whispering to each other and pointing at Cain. Murken simply stood there, watching. Waiting.

  Cain turned his attention back to the Iscara below. Iscarius hadn’t taken the bait; his gamble had failed. He’d hoped that Malecai would have heard of Cain’s retreat to Seraphel, that he would have come to take Ceerocai for himself. He knew, however, that it had been a stretch.

  Now he had to deal with Iscarius’ Knights before he could continue with his plan. And he needed to end this quickly or the Alliance would turn on him.

  “Draw!” Cain ordered. The aching of bow limbs and the tension of strings sounded across the mountaintop. Cain breathed a quiet sigh of relief that they’d chosen to obey him over Murken.

  Cain shot Ceerocai forward. “Loose!”

  Scores of burning arrows disgorged from the fortress and sped toward their prey. They quickly descended over the Iscara in a conflagration. However, the fires erupted as they neared the Knights. Arrows exploded and fell as dust around their feet. The fires flowed around them, illuminating their bright eyes in the darkness.

  Cain cursed. He should’ve known that wouldn’t work.

  The Iscara charged in a straight line for the gate. Arrows plinked harmlessly around them as they ran.

  “Projectiles won’t work on them,” Mithaniel said from Cain’s side.

  “Don’t you think I can see that? They must have a weakness!”

  “How would I know that? I—”

  The Iscara reached the wall, cutting off his snarky reply. They threw out their hands and a vicious wave of fire clawed up the curtain wall to smash into the archers. Men hurtled over the battlements and pelted down into the gathered army below.

  Now, free from the arrows, the Iscara formed a semi-circle before the gate. Their leader stepped forward, gauntleted hands raised and bear fur cloak snapping in the wind.

  Cain peeked over a crenel in the wall. “What is he doing?”

  “Run!” Mithaniel grabbed him and dove over the bodies.

  A gale swirled before the Iscara, stirring snow and earth. The man lifted his arms overhead and the wind redirected to flow around him in a violent embrace. Cain had seen that kind of power only once before.

  The Knight threw out his hands and a blade of blue light erupted forth. Wind and light smashed into the stronghold.

  Seraphel’s doors exploded back. They crashed through the Alliance’s front ranks, scattering bodies through the air with horrific force. The doors bounced a final time before fall
ing to crush a group of Kaanosi.

  The Knight stepped into the courtyard. He looked at the terrified soldiers through the slit in his helm, a hollow laugh escaping.

  He tossed out a hand. A javelin of bright light punched through the Alliance ranks, impaling several men and cauterizing the wounds even as their bodies dropped. The man waved his other hand and soldiers flailed through the air in a burst of wind.

  Cain ducked through the falling bodies. He had to kill this man, and quick.

  Iscara dispersed through the open gateway, wind and fire and lightning blasting through the Alliance. Men could only cower behind their shields as the powerful attacks ravaged those around them. Others dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy. They were the first to die.

  Lightning cracked and curled. Morbid shrieks cut the air as soldiers dropped, cooked alive. A few brave men charged. Their bodies blasted over Cain as he ran.

  Cain threw Ceerocai into a flash of lightning. Its tendrils surged around him, searing white in his eyes and raising the hairs on his flesh. He drove his sword into a ball of wind, then another, then another, cutting his way toward the Iscara leader.

  Cain beat back a surge of shadows and swung his sword at a Knight. He dropped the man in one clean blow, blood spraying over the snow. Cain stepped over the body as Iscara stumbled back, eyes wide at the sight of him and the sword of their former master.

  The Iscara leader threw out a wall of light at him. Cain deflected this, breaths of wind pulling at his clothes. The man lashed a whip of shadows at him and Cain smacked it away, dodged another burst of shadows, then blocked a ball of wind that sent him stumbling back.

  Cain regained his footing and spared a quick glance for his men. Their lines were broken. Dozens, if not hundreds, of men lay dead and dying. Their blood darkened the courtyard.

  He turned from them, their cries loud in his ears. He wouldn’t fail them again, not when he’d led them into this mess.

  Ceerocai suddenly grew warm in his hands. Its ruby began to glow, a soft black light flickering in its heart.

  The Iscara muttered something and turned from Cain. He waved a gauntleted hand and his soldiers pulled from their attacks to retreat through the gate. In moments, the courtyard was quiet save for the wails of dying men.

  Cain stood for a moment, stunned. They’d had the advantage and had thrown it away the moment Ceerocai stirred. What did that mean? It didn’t matter. He’d make them pay. He started after them, some of his soldiers following his lead.

  Someone grabbed his arm. He spun to see Mithaniel, sword bloody at his side. “Don’t do it, Cain. Now’s not the time.”

  Cain turned to see their leader running away into the night. He cursed and returned to his dwindled Alliance.

  Among the Flames

  The sun hung heavy in the sky over Meres, beating down its rays. Relentless. Even in the middle of winter the whole damned country felt like a funeral pyre.

  King Cradoc turned to the skies. Not a single cloud. Just the ever-present, stifling heat. He’d been king of Meres for two decades now, and he still hadn’t grown used to the heat.

  He returned his gaze to the sands and drew his red silks close about his face. He felt as if he were swimming in sweat, his silks and linens sagging with perspiration and stinking of salt. Worse, his feet practically stirred in a brine, and a strange fungus had taken the crooks between his toes for its home. He didn’t feel much like a king.

  He didn’t look like one either. He had long since stripped away his shining silver and gold-etched armor for the cool, simple silks beneath. He’d discarded his armor somewhere to make room in his litter for the infirmed and wounded. He would have removed his crown as well, for the wrought band of rose gold and many-colored rubies pressed like a sizzling brand about his head. However, Arata had advised him against it. A king was a symbol; he must do his best to look the part.

  He took his Guard Captain’s counsel and never removed it. He wore the brand night and day, burning a ring about his brow despite his cowl of silks. He felt the weight and presence of the crown more now than he had in all his years on the sandstone throne. Probably because of the blisters.

  He adjusted his crown and scanned the desert. A train of people trickled over the red hills, a coiling snake of flesh and rags. Tatters of linen and skin and silk rippled in the sweltering sighs of wind. It was a sad sight of the young and old, of merchants and beggars, sailors, smiths, tailors, people from every corner of Meres. Thousands of soldiers guarded their flanks, their red armor cooking in the sun. Dozens of Cradoc’s personal guardsmen screened their advance, their sand striders kicking dust trails from their hooves. Cradoc watched a woman stumble along, clutching her crying baby.

  “We cannot dig more graves, my king,” a voice rang beside him. Cradoc turned to Arata. The High Captain sifted through the sands at his side, prodding up the hill with his elegant glaive.

  His red silks were soaked through with sweat, down to his scaled steel shirt of scarlet and bronze. The blood red eagle emblazoned on his chest seemed more a lark, shriveled in wet and salt.

  Despite the heat, the captain had never looked more resolved. His copper eyes watched the horizon from his dark face.

  “I have led them to this destruction, Arata. It is my duty to ensure that they are at least buried with some dignity.”

  Arata spoke with the almost songlike accent of a Meresi. “Dignity won’t feed the crows.” He looked up at the clear sky. Black dots speckled the blue. “Every time we stop to bury someone who died, we give the enemy more time to find us. If we continue like this, then we will end up like King Ivandar and his men.”

  “He at least has a glorious tomb for the world to remember him. I have fed my people only dirt and death.”

  “My king, you saved them from death. Yes, we lost Izadon to the traitors, but you saved thousands of your people.”

  “Only to lead them to another doom. Is that the fate we are destined? To trade one cruel end for another?” He gripped his limp arm with a frown.

  “Pardon my saying, my king, but perhaps they might not think the same.” He waved his glaive out over the masses.

  Cradoc nodded. Yes… it was important to remember why he kept going when he wanted nothing more than to collapse in the sand.

  They ascended a dune. More slopes of sand stretched before them like a rumpled parchment cast into a brazier, crackling and sizzling with red and orange.

  Cradoc looked out over his country. It was a cruel place, but it was also beautiful. He was proud to call it his home. “Arata, you have served me faithfully for many years, and I have always heeded your wise counsel. Tell me, what should I do with my people?”

  The High Captain’s eyes narrowed, his dark skin creasing as he thought. “If we stop to bury every babe and lame and elderly, then the enemy will overtake us.”

  “And those who make the journey?”

  “They have no place in war. Yes, they paid taxes and kept trade, but now we move to battle. Keep the smiths and all able-bodied men and women. We must train and arm them for combat when the time comes.”

  “You speak sage words, but I cannot leave my people to the sands. I led them to this destruction, I must lead them out.”

  “To battle, my king? Death will only greet them there.”

  “Death awaits at the end of all paths, but we can at least choose which road to take. I am aware of the dangers, but there is nowhere else we can go. We must meet Ethebriel in Kaanos and join forces with his if we are to have any hope of resisting the Acedens. But the journey there is too long by foot, we would perish before we reached our own border. The shortest march to Menaheim is our only hope. We can take the royal fleet; they are already assembled and awaiting my orders to sail to Kaanos.”

  “My scouts report the black armor of traitors everywhere,” Arata replied. “Acedens have been seen in the Kohar Mountains, in the Yellow Dunes of the Yasu, and even as far east as the Gold Coast. It is a dangerous journey, but Menaheim will have
its own dangers, I do not doubt.”

  “You think it unwise to make for Menaheim?” Arata’s thick lips curled into a frown. “Do not fear to speak the truth.”

  “My king, I believe this enemy is more cunning than we yet know. They rose from within our own walls. They could even be among us now.” He glanced around them to the lines of civilians, to the soldiers at their flanks, and even to his own guardsmen.

  “Most of my fleet has gathered at Menaheim, hundreds of my finest cogs and galleys and war ships crewed by thousands of sailors and soldiers. The place is impenetrable, at the broadest leg of the Alar at the mouth of the Menaheim Sea. It is several broken islands, each with its own fortress and garrison. They are well prepared for an attack. It will be safe.”

  “My king, it is not an attack from the outside that worries me.”

  Cradoc sighed, looking out over his people. “It is a risk we have to take. Do not give up hope, my friend. Not yet.”

  Mithaniel walked through a row of buildings filled with the mangled and wounded. Men groveled in their pain, low moans and murmurs reaching his ears as he passed. Despite his best efforts, he found himself peering through the open doors and dilapidated walls. So much destruction. Men were burned, some charred beyond recognition. Others missed limbs or bled out over the bricks. Some simply stared up at the roofs, minds broken.

  He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something he hadn’t really known he could feel. Sadness. He hadn’t felt that since he’d watched Acedens burn down a village. He still remembered the screams of children. Why couldn’t he shake that? He was doing the right thing here; he was doing his part to help change the world. Why was he faltering now?

  Mithaniel left behind the cries of dying men and entered one of the empty supply houses. He found Cain near the corner, tying a wounded soldier’s bandage.

  “When was the last time you slept?” he asked the Warrior.