The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  “So, where are you going if you’re not going to meet the Alliance?”

  “Simple.” Jiran exhaled a plume of smoke. “We go where the people need us.”

  “And how do you know where that is?”

  Jiran gave a grim smile. “Look around Adriel Ivanne. This is war; we’re needed everywhere.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to be more specific?”

  He poked his pipe at her. “Straight to the point. I like it. We’re going to Caethiwed. My people left Ilross and made for the closest city thinking it’d be safer—that was before the West Riders and Eriasans showed up. My scouts say Caethiwed is in enemy hands now, which means my people are in chains. And, if the rumors are to be believed, the Acedens have been enslaving the rest of the country as well. I will not allow that to happen.”

  Adriel nodded. She’d seen slavery firsthand in Alkanost, back in Inveira. She knew how horribly the Acedens treated people, and all too well how she’d failed them. “Why would the Acedens enslave their own countrymen? It’s terrible.”

  Jiran puffed on his pipe in thought. “You might as well ask why anyone commits cruel deeds. Ask any man, and he’ll tell you he’s no more evil than the next. The Acedens have their reasons, however twisted and deluded they may be. I don’t know if we can win this war, Adriel, but we will at least save who we can. We fight for freedom, to protect and save.” He turned to her with a solemn smile. “Welcome to the Vilant, Adriel Ivanne. We’re going to free the world.”

  A crack resounded in the night and a man fell to the ground with his face in the dirt. He raised his hands over his head, whimpering as tears streamed down his bloodied face.

  The whip cracked once more across his back. An Aceden soldier struck him again, the whip’s metal barbs pulling away with bits of flesh and ragged screams.

  Ada Arillius walked past this, eyes forward. The man’s cries faded behind him.

  The town ahead was filled with corpses. Not the dead, though they may as well have been. Hundreds roamed the streets like walking ghouls, chains jangling their death song. They shambled about in long files, their eyes distant and defeated.

  A laugh sounded among the moans and rattling of chains. Ada turned to see Malleus Taraus standing over a fallen man. A woman rushed toward him and threw herself over the beaten man. “No, please!” she cried up at Malleus. “He’s sick, he can’t keep walking!” Malleus scowled down at her, gauntlet raised.

  “Malleus!” Ada called. The woman managed to grab the man and hobble away. “I see you’re enjoying yourself as usual.”

  Malleus took a dramatic bite from a flank of mutton. “And you’re a right pain in my ass as always, one-eye.”

  Ada sighed. How had he ever ended up here? “I don’t want to be here anymore than you. Let us at least pretend to stand each other for the sake of our men.”

  “Quite the opposite,” he spat between chews, “I thought at first Iscarius was punishing me, but it turns out he knew I would enjoy this. They love me!” He stepped back with a flourish of his arms. The prisoners shuffled past, eyes dull. “I said, they love me!” At this, every man and woman able to stand clapped, shackles clanging as they called out praises.

  Ada shook his head. He may have been an assassin for most of his life, but he didn’t relish killing—contrary to his reputation. Some people just needed a good arrow in the eye. Like Malleus, for instance.

  “You see, Ada?” the general grinned. “Have some fun, you damn prude. It’s the spoils of war.” He tossed the remainder of his meal. The gnawed slab of meat bounced across the dirt and stopped among a group of prisoners.

  They dove for the scraps, kicking and clawing each other. One man grabbed for the food, but the others dragged him down and beat him with their chains.

  Ada watched them fight. He’d just needed some money to put food on the table. How had he let himself get dragged into something like this? Had he really been so blind? “They’re still people, Malleus.”

  The general leaned down, his faces inches from Ada’s. “They’re animals. The only thing that separates us from them are a few square meals.”

  Malleus then grinned a yellow grin and sauntered off, a group of slaves trailing at his heels for a chance of scraps. Ada watched the cloud of dust kicked up as men tore each other part. He stepped away with a sigh and entered the city of Caethiwed.

  “The bitch!” Silas cursed. “How could she just leave us like that?”

  Isroc laughed at his friend and guided his mount up the slope.

  “I’m serious, mate. How could she go and do that to us?”

  “To us? It sounds to me like it’s personal.”

  Silas grumbled, absently flicking his reins. “Well, it’s not personal, so get that out of your head. I just want to know after everything we’ve been through why she would go and leave us.”

  “She wouldn’t leave us, not for good. I’m sure there’s a reason she went with the Vilant. She’s a grown woman; she can make her own decisions.”

  “Not if she gets us all killed.”

  “And how would she do that?”

  “She took five hundred Vilant from us. Men and women that Cain needs to help fight the Iscara. Men and women we need if we’re to save your country.”

  “Men and women that are out there now trying to save my country.”

  Silas huffed.

  “Besides, Adriel didn’t take the Vilant. Jiran did. You know as well as I do that he would have taken his soldiers with him no matter what. They have their own battles to fight right now.”

  “Just like we did to Cain. He needed us, and we left him… I left him.”

  “He’s the most stubborn man I’ve ever met. Once he decided to hold Seraphel, there was no persuading him otherwise.”

  “I should’ve tried at least. I should’ve stayed. Once I saw that look in his eyes…”

  “Look? What do you mean?”

  “He always gets that look when he’s just come up with a bad plan.”

  Isroc stroked his beard in thought. “You think he knew what he was doing? That he’d prepared for the Iscara?”

  Silas nodded, icy eyes lost somewhere ahead. “Aye. And I think he’s going to do something really stupid.”

  “Why does that not surprise me,” Isroc sighed.

  “We’re going to Seraphel right? We’re going to save him?”

  “Yes. And we’re bringing him the reinforcements he was too scared to get.”

  Silas swallowed heavily in an uncharacteristic display of worry. “Do you think we’ll get to him in time?”

  “It’s not the Iscara I’m worried about. It’s Cain. The man is fighting his own battles.” He tapped his skull. “All of them are just up here.”

  The two stopped at the top of the hill. A strong wind rippled through the forest, sending their cloaks flapping behind them. Knolls stretched from horizon to horizon, capped with evergreens, and the gray outlines of mountains hovered in the distance. Moran organized the Inveiran and Eriasan soldiers before reining his mount up the hill to join the Warriors.

  Isroc pointed to the distant hills. “The scouts say that’s where the Acedens who have been tracking us will be.”

  “Are you sure?” Silas asked.

  Isroc pulled out a map that Hargus had acquired from a generous Aceden. “I know this land well, I used to travel this way between Mordicon and Morven. Those hills ahead make a kind of road; a sizeable force like theirs can only really go north or south once they’re in the foothills. My guess is the Acedens are regrouping with a larger force, maybe at Fort Ilentir on Raedan’s Road as it’s the only hold between Morven and Ilross. They’ll probably gather reinforcements there before continuing their pursuit.”

  Moran grinned, hand on his sword. “Then let’s pay them a visit, shall we?”

  Mithaniel raised his hood against the falling snow. He crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs onto the wall walk. Nearby, a group of sentries huddled together over a small fire. Mithaniel
turned the other way, hugging against the wall as he continued to the side of the fortress.

  After scanning the causeway for more soldiers, he slung himself over the battlements and dropped to the ground. He slowed himself with a burst of air and landed in a flurry of snow. He glanced up the wall, pausing to make sure he’d gone unnoticed.

  Satisfied, he left the shadow of Seraphel and approached the mass of black tents. The embers of cookfires danced in the night, and the scents of roasting meats and mulled wine caressed his nose with each breath of wind. His mouth watered the moment he entered the camp. He’d been hungry—weeks of eating only tack bread did that to a man—but now his stomach roared its displeasure.

  A platinum blonde Iscara stepped from the night. Others moved in around him, their eyes bright in the darkness.

  “Kamael,” Mithaniel greeted.

  “Where is it?” the woman replied.

  Mithaniel scanned the small camp. “There aren’t many of you. Where are Eritha and Barachiel and the others?”

  “They’ve been summoned south. Where is it?” Kamael pressed.

  “I don’t have it yet.”

  “Why? Surely you’ve tried to drive a dagger through his heart by now.”

  “I’ve had… complications. One false move and all that I have done will be for nothing.”

  Kamael turned, her long braid flicking in the wind. “I can’t afford you more time. You have had weeks.”

  “Then take it yourself,” Mithaniel hissed. “The doors are wide open; their men are broken. What’s stopping you from walking in and taking it for yourself?”

  The Iscara stepped closer, her icy blue eyes glowing in the night. “You and I both know what Cain Taran is, what he is capable of.”

  “Which is why you must destroy him before he discovers it for himself.” This was going to be a stupid, stupid gamble. But he was done playing games. It was time to pick a side. “Abaddon’s Iscara are attacking tomorrow at first light. You can’t let them get to Ceerocai first. If you move before they do, then I can use the distraction to kill Cain and take Ceerocai.”

  Kamael watched him for a moment, mind working behind those bright eyes. She moved closer until her face was inches from his. “We will attack at sunrise, with or without you. We will destroy them all, and I will take Ceerocai myself.”

  Cain gazed up the sheer cliff face of the mountain’s peak. It loomed high overhead, its end unseen. Mithaniel’s gyrfalcon, Sylva, glided in loops over the peak like a single snowflake spinning from the night sky.

  Why was he here? He’d been walking through the fortress, planning how he could pit the two Iscara groups against each other. He’d come up with nothing more than a headache.

  Now he was here, staring up this cliff.

  Mithaniel had said that the heavens spoke atop the mountain, that he could find the answers he sought there. Maybe that’s why he was here. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

  Why did Malecai want him dead? How was he able to use Ceerocai? Was the weapon useless now that the beast was dead? How was he going to save himself and his men?

  Mithaniel. He wasn’t sure if he trusted the man yet or not. Perhaps that was just him being sour after Malecai’s betrayal, but something seemed off about the Iscara. The man had clearly been uneasy with the arrival of the first group of Iscara yet didn’t display the same trouble when the second group arrived. If anything, he had looked relieved. Was he a spy, or was he something more? Either way, perhaps he could use the man…

  Cain looked up the cliff again. Mithaniel’s gyrfalcon made a final loop overhead before disappearing over the mountaintop. It was time to get some answers.

  He approached the sheer wall and hoisted himself up by a rock. Shifting his boot around until he found the slightest ridge, he used the foothold to inch higher. The nearly glass-like wall fell like a curtain from the heavens. So much farther to go. This had not been his best idea.

  Cain blinked the sweat from his brow as the frigid wind and snow bit against his skin. He threw a hand forward and latched onto another rock. He climbed higher and higher, gradually, gingerly, painfully ascending the mountaintop.

  Wind and snow and ice lashed against him. He could barely feel his hands and feet now. He stopped every few moments to try and work some feeling back into his hands, his legs and arms shaking from the cold and ache. The slightest wrong move and he’d be strewn about the rocks below; something told him that he wouldn’t survive a second fall like that.

  The mountainside battled against him. Stones slipped wet through his grip and cascaded over him, pelting and cutting. Ice slicked around him. Rocks and ridges stretched fewer and fewer between, forcing him to reach every which way like a searching vine.

  He reached up again. Nothing. His fingertips searched for rock but grabbed only empty air. He hoisted himself up and clambered atop the mountain’s peak, rolling to a painful stop.

  He laid face down in the snow for a time, his body afire. His hands trembled blue and bloodied. He slammed his fists into the snow and swallowed a scream. Eventually, he managed to roll over and lay there motionless for a time. How long had he been climbing?

  A cry stirred in the wind-tossed air. Cain rose, groaning, and squinted through the streaking snow. He staggered to his feet and crossed the mountaintop to the source of the call.

  The dark clouds parted for a moment to reveal the white face of the moon. Flat and crescent shaped, it cradled the old temple of Seraphel in its towering hands. Columns and arches peeked out from tall drifts of snow to form some kind of broken dome.

  There, beneath a winged statue in the middle of the dome, Mithaniel’s gyrfalcon feasted on a raven. Black feathers scattered in the red-stained snow. Sylva watched Cain with its onyx eyes and gave a satisfied shriek before returning to her meal. Cain approached the bird, knowing what he’d find. He’d seen shreds of parchment carried away by the wind. He’d seen Mithaniel spin about, the faintest gleam of surprise in his green eyes.

  Indeed, tied around the gyrfalcon’s leg was a small piece of parchment, barely noticeable in the night. Cain knelt beside the bird and stretched out a cautious hand. The falcon glared at him but continued her feast as he worked the parchment from her leg. Sylva screeched and plucked her meal from the snow before flying away through the night.

  Cain unfurled the scrap of parchment. Scratched in hastily scrawled ink was a single word.

  Kaanos.

  Mithaniel walked under Seraphel’s archway, running his hand along the scars in the ancient stone where rock and metal were riven by the might of the Iscara. He stepped over a wreckage of twisted iron and entered the courtyard. Bare and silent. The night hung heavy like a dark screen.

  Mithaniel sighed. He’d known this would eventually happen.

  The shadows stirred, and dozens of Alliance soldiers stepped from the night, longbows trained on him. Swords winked in the moonlight. Cain appeared from the dark of a nearby building, Ceerocai held before him, his hands dripping blood in the snow.

  Mithaniel’s mind raced through a dozen scenarios. He could shield himself from the arrows, flee through the gateway. He could lunge for Cain hoping to surprise him. Instead, he raised his arms in surrender.

  He’d set events into motion. He’d picked his side.

  He just hoped Cain would understand.

  Mithaniel glanced at the surrounding longbows. “You should have learned your lesson by now.”

  “The only lesson I should have learned is to listen to my friends. They warned me not to trust you.”

  Mithaniel shook his head. “You are making a grave mistake.” He yanked his sword from its sheath and cast it in the snow.

  “Get him out of here,” Cain spat. Several soldiers seized Mithaniel and escorted him down the road.

  The moon hung full in the cloudy sky. Stars studded the black and shimmered white against the dunes. Reds turned silver, browns turned white, and the coppers of the distant mountains faded to black.

  Meres was a fick
le maid it was said. She was callous in the harsh heat of the day, but at night she was cold yet forgiving. As beautiful as she was horrible.

  King Cradoc knew the ways of this fickle maid but he never played her games. She was dangerous at best and lethal at her worst. Even at night when her sands were cool and her winds pleasant, he knew that she beckoned only to danger.

  So, he cut his own course through the moonlit dunes. He led his people east, the thousands crawling like a sluggish worm from slope to slope.

  Cradoc cradled his paralyzed arm as he mounted a dune. He looked over the waves of people to the distant horizon, a moon-scrubbed span of rock and crevice and shrubs. Pillars of dust scarred the sky.

  “Menaheim is a few days east,” Arata said, stepping up beside him. “We are setting a good pace.”

  Cradoc frowned. “Our provisions are dry. We suck at the last drops of water and wine.”

  Arata bowed his head of short-cropped black hair. “Yes, my king. But the forces at Menaheim will be amply supplied, you saw to that yourself when you had your troops gather for the journey to Kaanos.”

  “I did. But that will also make them a valuable target. It’s the biggest beast that makes the finest hunt. Come, let us continue.” He followed his people down the side of the dune and along the feet of several smaller slopes. Rocks and cactus poked up from the sand here and there to mar their otherwise smooth path.

  “I was blind to the Acedens, Arata. Ethebriel sensed they were a bigger threat beyond the confines of Inveira, that they were a shadow that would spread to every corner of Tarsha. I heeded his caution, but I regret to say that I did not share his foresight. I returned to Meres to rally our forces, I even summoned the fleets to Menaheim, but I still did not understand their reach. I pulled my armies from where they were needed the most and all but gave my country to the enemy. They now swarm us like ants upon a corpse.”