The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  The world would have its peace.

  “Lord Iscarius.”

  A voice pulled him from his meditation. The light of the Forgotten vanished in an instant, leaving behind the cold, empty shell of his flesh. He struggled through the haze in his head to decipher the forces. Acceptance. Atonement. Forgiveness. Those were the only ‘words’ he could salvage from the Forgotten.

  Iscarius sighed. “You know I am not to be disturbed during these times, Commander Demorne.” He stood, at last feeling the intense cold. Goosebumps pricked his scarred and burned chest.

  “My deepest apologies, my lord, but I have troubling news.”

  Iscarius nodded, shrugging into his tunic and cloak. “Kamael lost.”

  Demorne blinked. “Yes, my lord. Few escaped.”

  “And Alanis? Did he and his loyalists survive?”

  “They were defeated, my lord. Taran and his Alliance managed to escape.”

  Iscarius picked his sword from the snow. “I suspected as much. I encouraged Kamael to wait for reinforcements, but she insisted she beat our enemies to Taran. We have all underestimated him. Well, no longer. We continue with the plan, commander. We move south. To Kaanos.”

  He raised a hand and snow snuffed the fire instantly, plunging them into the dark of night.

  “Cain Taran will come to us.”

  The Weight of Chains

  “We march for Seraphel,” Isroc said for what had to have been the tenth time.

  “We march for Meres!” Moran cried back.

  “We march for Seraphel.”

  Moran took a step forward and leaned down over him. “We march for Meres!”

  Isroc sighed and looked around. His soldiers picked through the bodies and tended to the injured. A few simply laid about under the trees and along the valley’s walls. Silas and Hargus watched their argument from afar, the two men sharing a wineskin.

  Isroc shook his head at Silas’ smirks and turned his attention back to Moran. How long had they been arguing this point? Their men shouldn’t be seeing their leaders fight like this but he’d long since given up trying to have a rational argument.

  “There is nothing for us here,” Moran continued. “You know as well as I do that Erias is doomed! Let us go to Meres, there may still be hope there. I’ve heard rumors that King Cradoc gathers his forces in Menaheim.”

  “Like I’ve already said, we’re going back to Cain; we need to regroup if we’re going to keep up this fight.”

  “You abandoned your friend. Why go to his aid now?”

  “I didn’t abandon him,” Isroc growled.

  “Sure as shit looks like it to me. You had a pissing match with him and lost, so you decided to leave and save your skin. No harm in that, but Taran is as good as dead by now.”

  “His plan to hold Seraphel was stupid. I left to gather my West Riders and resupply our men. I have no intention of abandoning Cain to the Iscara.”

  “The Iscara will have your friend’s head on a spike by now.”

  “I’ll have your head on a spike if you speak ill of my friend again.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “What did it sound like?”

  Moran spat a curse. “I rallied my armies, killed my traitorous king, and fought your battles for your country’s freedom, all for the sake of this foolish notion of an Alliance. And what have I received?” he waved a hand to the death around him. “I’m beginning to think this Alliance was a mistake.”

  Isroc suppressed another sigh. He’d believed so strongly in the Alliance before, but now it was starting to feel like a child’s wistful dream. How could he hope to lead his men if he didn’t even believe in what they fought for? “We march for Seraphel. That is that.”

  Moran glowered down at him and Isroc stared back into those dark eyes. The hulking general lumbered off and cursed for his men to form ranks.

  Silas and Hargus stepped up beside Isroc. “I don’t think I much like that man,” Hargus said after a time.

  Silas snorted and took a pull from his pilfered wineskin. “He’s a nice enough fellow. Good songs and stories, anyway. Say, you should ask him why they call him Seven Legs…”

  Isroc watched the general prepare his troops for the march. Could he blame the man for feeling the way he did? After all, he had left his own bleeding country to help protect the rest of Tarsha from the Acedens. So far, they’d done nothing more than stanch Erias’ wounds.

  Low on supplies and short on men, they were surrounded and outnumbered in a country slowly burning to the ground. Had he once really believed that he’d be able to take back his home and save his people? There was nothing he could do.

  That knowledge hurt more than any blade he’d ever taken.

  He stood and waved for his men to ready up. He may not be able to do much, but he still had to try.

  Adriel picked a path through the mangled mounds of bodies. Blood and viscera splattered the brick road. Vilant roamed the body-strewn streets, dragging corpses into piles and searching homes for supplies.

  She turned the corner and walked into a wall of smoke. She swatted it away with a cough and approached Jiran. The leader of the Vilant sat against a wall, watching the crows peck at the bodies of his fallen comrades.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jiran looked up at her, his face still caked with blood. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’ve resigned yourself to defeat. Your Vilant are starting to talk. They’re worried about you.”

  Jiran turned back to the corpses, puffing on his pipe. “I lost nearly half my force retaking this city. It was for nothing; the people of Ilross are not here. They’re in chains now.”

  “You would surrender, is that the way of it?”

  “I am not a coward, girl.” His normally warm voice held a strange edge. “I want to save as many people from this war as I can, same as you, but I first have to keep my Vilant alive. Winter is upon us. We are low on supplies; we cannot fight if we are starved and frozen.”

  “Then we will pillage supplies from our enemies. Harass their trains, test their defenses, strike where we may until they know to fear us.”

  “Us?” He clicked his teeth on his pipe and watched her through the smoke. “I do not intend to die here, to ease your concern. I’m merely contemplating our next move.” He stood with fists clenched. “We will find them, Adriel. No matter the cost.”

  Before them, the once lush forest of evergreens that surrounded Caethiwed had been felled and cleared, and in their place remained a sore, brown and festering.

  Thousands of tents covered the fields. Some were the gray canvas of the Acedens, some simple leather flaps, others scraps of soiled linens, a tent here and there the reds and golds and greens of Meres and Kaanos and Charun.

  Deep latrines scarred the camp, human waste pungent in the crisp air. Vilant moved through the extensive network of tents searching for any signs of people. The place was empty, and the only occupants—the garrison of Acedens—lay dead in the streets.

  Adriel’s face darkened at the sight of the abandoned slave camp. “Where are we going next?”

  Jiran stared at the tents, pipe held forgotten in a fist. “There is a town in the east about a fortnight from here. Arkon. My scouts think it might be a hub for slave caravans moving south into Charun. I would say they deserve a visit, don’t you?”

  Adriel scowled. “Then we go to Arkon.”

  Cain bowed his head against the flare of intense heat. The flesh of the countless fallen Alliance and Iscara sizzled and popped as putrid smoke billowed into the starry skies. The Iscara’s fire had razed many of Seraphel’s buildings, providing them with ample fuel to burn the dead. That didn’t make it any easier; out of the thousand or so who had stayed, barely three hundred remained. Well, two hundred and ninety. The night wasn’t over yet.

  Cain returned to his task. He’d found a shovel in the Iscara’s camp, used to dig fire pits and latrines. He drove the shovel into the rocky ground and t
ossed his load of dirt onto a growing mound. Eriasans preferred to bury their dead. He’d at least give them that.

  Kaelin approached, arms crossed as he examined Cain. “I really don’t think you should be digging in your condition.”

  Cain scooped up another shovelful of icy rock and dirt. “Condition? I barely feel it.” A sharp pain betrayed him as he twisted. Well, his ribs hadn’t been hurting much until now. He was counting on his body healing swiftly like it had after his fall in Brunein. He didn’t know why his injuries healed like they did, but he’d take what he could get. “Besides, you’ve already asked me to let someone else do this a dozen times.”

  Kaelin knelt beside the hole, eyes level with Cain. “Are you sure you need to do this?”

  Cain wiped his brow. The heat from the pyres was stifling at this distance, evaporating the sweat from his pores. “Yes, Kaelin. They may have betrayed us, but they did it because they thought it was right. Deep down they wanted the best for Erias, just as you do.”

  “They killed my friends. They’re no better than the Acedens.”

  Cain handed the man his shovel and climbed out of the hole. He turned to the line of ten kneeling men, the last of Murken’s rebels. One man for every grave.

  “Our boys won’t like this,” Kaelin continued. “You burn our brothers and bury the traitors, they’ll see it as a slight.”

  Cain nodded. “Probably. There were too many dead, however; it would’ve taken weeks to dig enough graves for them.”

  “Then why bury the bastards?” Kaelin gestured at the nearest rebel. The man glanced up at them, eyes orange in the firelight.

  “I shouldn’t have to bury anyone.” He waved a hand. “But that is our world.” The men standing behind each rebel unsheathed their swords and slit their throats. The rebels spasmed and collapsed, blood staining the snow as they were kicked still writhing into their graves.

  Kaelin grunted and tossed dirt on a still-dying man.

  Cain turned from the crackling fires and crossed the field to the cave. A dozen men stood guard here, and he parted their formation to Mithaniel, once again bound and beaten. The Iscara looked up at him through bruised eyes and gave him a bloody smile.

  “Thank you for your diligence, men,” Cain said to the soldiers. “You may go now.”

  One of the men stepped forward with a Kaanosi salute. “But, captain, we—”

  “Go,” Cain said again. “All of you.”

  The soldiers saluted and left the cave. Cain stepped forward, looking down on the bound Iscara. “You killed one of my soldiers,” he said after a time. “I just executed ten men for doing the same.”

  “I did what I had to. I do not regret my decision.”

  Cain knelt, the firelight framing him like a shadow in the cave’s mouth. “I don’t know why you chose to save my life, but I do not take that lightly.”

  “Then you will let me go?” He hunched forward, flicking his tied hands.

  “Why are you here, Mithaniel?”

  He leaned back against the wall and returned Cain’s gaze. “You know the answer to that question.”

  “You are a spy.”

  “Yes. I was.”

  “That’s why you helped me kill Alanis and his followers. Because they wanted to take Ceerocai for themselves. You’re here to take it for your own master.”

  “Malecai is not my master.” Mithaniel gave a sigh. “He’s my friend. Or was, I guess. Look, is it so hard to believe I helped you because I actually wanted to help you?”

  “Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you had a sudden change of heart.”

  “I forgive you.”

  Cain pulled the scrap of parchment from his cloak and held it out to the Iscara. “Why did you do it?”

  Mithaniel frowned at the small piece of paper, the single ink word illuminated in the orange glow. “I have been an Iscara for as long as my memory serves me; I’ve known nothing else. I joined Iscarius’ rebellion because I thought that his was the way to peace. But Malecai became little better than Abaddon. He manipulated thousands, killed and enslaved innocent people. I grew uncertain as our decades of planning finally came to fruition. I never knew what was right until I met you and learned what it meant to be human.”

  “Save the sob story. How much have you told them?”

  “Everything. My objective was to steal Ceerocai from you and kill you if I could.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Mithaniel chewed on this for a moment. “Perhaps I found a heart.”

  Cain returned the parchment to his cloak and met the man’s gaze. Could he trust this Iscara after everything that had happened? This could just be some elaborate plan of Iscarius’ to get close to him again.

  Why did he find it so hard to believe that this man could just be trying to do the right thing? “Why did the message say Kaanos?”

  “That is where the war is, Cain Taran. You know that in your heart.”

  “So, all of this has been another diversion?” He cursed. “Damn Iscarius! He’s always a step ahead of me.”

  “That is what he wants you to think. Yes, he’s had decades, if not centuries, to plan his conquest of Tarsha, but he’s spread too thin and has too many fingers in too many pots. That’s his weakness.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That he doesn’t know everything. He didn’t know you were going to Seraphel, that was my somewhat last-minute plan to corner you after I realized killing you in Morven would have been too messy. Iscarius didn’t come to you because he knew you were preparing a trap for him. Anyway, I bided my time until Kamael and the others could arrive. But I didn’t anticipate Alanis.”

  “That doesn’t change anything. He’s still marching on Kaanos, I have to stop him.”

  Mithaniel climbed to his feet. “That’s exactly what he wants! He vastly outnumbers your Alliance, he can tear you apart in Kaanos. If he doesn’t kill you on the open plains, then every village he burns, every innocent person he kills, will only anger you until you can’t plan your battles, prepare your defenses, even sleep without seeing his face. He will burn Kaanos down around you and only then will he kill you.”

  Cain stood with fists clenched. “Let him scheme, I’m done with his games. I will kill an Aceden for every blade of grass they flatten, for every brick they raze, for every hair on an innocent’s head they harm. Iscarius wants death? I will give that to him. He will have his fill of blood before this war is over. I will march for Kaanos, and I will end this war.”

  The sun trickled through the treetops and glistened against the morning’s cold dew.

  Adriel looked up through the canopy of barren trees. For the first time in a long time she felt at peace with herself. When she’d first picked up her bow to fight the arzecs she’d felt that same drive. Sure, it was for vengeance, but it didn’t really feel all that different from how she felt now. Of course, she believed in the Alliance—that’s why she’d joined the Warriors, after all—but since they’d left for Inveira all those months ago, she felt as if they had swayed from their path. Their battles had never been for the people—villages were burned and people enslaved while the Alliance fought behind fortress walls. Now, she finally felt her purpose return. She fought for the people.

  Adriel turned to the cart behind her as the barrels inside stirred.

  The mound of skins and cloths cracked with frost as Shara rose. Jiran stopped, nearly toppling the cart in his hurry.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, examining Shara’s bandages like a doting grandfather.

  “I see Caethiwed was a success,” Shara replied, blinking at the small groups of bloodied Vilant.

  Jiran frowned darkly. “Our people weren’t there. None of the slaves were. But we’re not done yet, I think I know where they might have been moved to.” He quickly changed the topic. “Sleep well, I take it?”

  Shara grunted. “I would have slept better if my axe were bloody. This damn leg…”

  Jiran paused. “Tiergan didn
’t make it. I’m sorry, I know you two were close.” Shara bowed her head. “We’re marching on Arkon. There’s a good chance our people are there.”

  “Good.” She grabbed the side of the cart and made to pull herself over the edge.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” Jiran grabbed her by the shoulders to push her back into the cart. “You are in no condition to walk.”

  “I am, and I will! You can’t stop me.” She thrust her palm up into Jiran’s chin, nearly throwing him off his feet. “Don’t you try anything either!” she stabbed a finger at Adriel.

  She threw herself over the side of the cart and immediately tumbled to the ground. Adriel knelt beside her but Shara brushed her away, stumbling to her feet to prop herself up against the dray.

  “What are you looking at?” she barked at the gathering Vilant. The onlookers dispersed back into their ragged columns.

  Jiran rubbed at his neck. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

  “And you shouldn’t be carrying me around. You’ll tire yourself out, old man.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, your wound is still deep. Please, rest.”

  “You’ll carry me no more. I am not a sick child.” She pointed at a passing Vilant. “You there! Give me your spear!” The man’s eyes flashed wide but he shuffled forward and offered his spear. Shara snatched it and pushed off the cart to lean on the polearm. She then hobbled down the path, swinging her bandaged leg with each push of the spear.

  Jiran sighed and gestured for several nearby Vilant to take the cart. “She’s tough,” he began as the two of them followed her. “But beneath all that fire lies a scared and wounded woman.” Adriel pursed her lips.

  “She was a bright and happy girl, she always made others smile. She was a girl for a different time and could have done great things. Alas, she was born into war. I’d ask myself why, why her? She wasn’t born for the sword like I was. But she convinced herself she was after she watched arzecs rip her parents apart. I pulled her from the ruins of Ilross… and I saw fire in her eyes.”