He plucked a bar of red-hot steel from the forge with a pair of tongs and swung it over to his anvil. A practiced hand pried a wedge into the narrow slot at its end and worked it through with the calculated, forceful beats of his hammer.
He shoved the bar back into the forge and wiped his sweaty brow, looking around. Men worked two or three per forge and anvil, skillfully swapping hammer blows or trading places between jobs. Barebacked boys weaved through the chaos with carts and wheelbarrows of weapons, arrowheads, axe hafts, tools, and coal. Others operated the billows, great leather bags half again as big as them that forced them to rise on tiptoes with every pump. The air was acerbic, filled with sparks and the sharp stench of hot metals. Dense smoke clung to the low-hanging stone roof, darkening the already dark smithy that the lights of dozens of forges couldn’t combat.
Silas plunged his tongs into the fire and spun the bar of steel back to the anvil as a burly smith slipped around him to the forge. Silas worked a haft-shaped wedge into the eye of the bar and pounded it through to the other side.
The bar glowed a warm orange and flakes of dark carbon brushed off with each strike. He always missed the forge, whether it was months away or to step outside for a piss. There was something calming about beating metal into shape, turning it into something functional. So why did his head feel like it was the one taking the beating?
They’d been here for weeks, picking dirt from dust. And for what? He could be in Kaanos by now. That was where Cain was. That was where they would win. So why did they not go already? Why did he not go already?
They lost Inveira. They lost Erias. They lost Charun. The captured Acedens reported that Meres had fallen as well. Reports came in almost daily now, reiterating one simple fact. They were losing.
He liked to think of himself as a positive man. But even he had to admit when they had a bad hand. They had only one play left to make. Kaanos.
There were conflicting reports on whether Kaanos still stood. Some said Dun Ara was under Aceden control, others that the city was a pile of ashes. Some Acedens said that the country was firmly in their hands while others said they could barely cling on as Kaanosi rebels rallied against them.
There was only one thing for Silas to do. He had to discover Kaanos’ fate for himself.
Cain had surely gone back home to find out as well. Cain was somehow the key to beating these Acedens, and Iscarius knew that. Iscarius and his armies would be in Kaanos looking for him. That was where the war was. So why was Silas still here?
A boy stumbled through the open archway of the smithy, nearly tripping over his sandals in excitement. Soot streaked his chest and face, smeared with sweat that he vainly wiped away. He doubled over, panting and gasping for breath until the lead smith—a big, bear-like man—lumbered toward him.
The smith folded his great hairy arms across his apron. “Where is my coal, boy? I sent you out near an hour gone! My fires will starve! Shall I throw you to them? You may do well enough until I find another with faster feet!”
“There’s something going on out there,” the boy managed to splutter. “People are running all over! I think there’s something happening at the gate.”
“I don’t care if there’s an army of arzecs at the gate. You go find me my damned coal, boy! And don’t come back ‘til you have it or I’ll string you by the ankles and use your hide for stropping!” The boy bolted through the smoke, not daring to look back. The man gave a satisfied grunt and eyed the surrounding smiths as if to make sure they were still about their tasks.
Silas spun to the forge and stuck his axe head into the glowing coals. He turned to the nearby smith. “I’m stepping out for a piss. You may have to finish that piece for me.” The smith grunted a response.
Silas hung his tools and apron on pegs lining the wall. Muscles pulsing with a dull weariness, he flexed them gingerly, his bronzed skin shining with sweat and the glow of fires. Blackened with soot from hair to toenails, most of it days old crust now, he sighed as he pulled on his sooty, sweat-soaked tunic. The blue linen was stifling in the oppressive heat of the forges.
He worked through the smithy and passed the lead smith who eyed him with his bushy brows but said nothing. Silas supposed there were some perks to being a Warrior.
He stepped outside, the fresh air as starkly different from the forge as bar iron from sword. He inhaled the sweet, cold breeze and scrubbed a hand through his hair, soot and ash snowing down.
The boy was right, something was going on. The wall was a place of controlled chaos at best; tens of thousands of people crammed together in tight spaces as they worked. Throw in the daily struggle for food and drink, men and women training for battle, and the constant stream of patrols returning with more freedmen and prisoners, and it was a mixing pot for trouble.
A faint rumble like thunder. He’d heard that noise a few times before, and nothing good had ever come from it.
A mob.
Isroc stared up at the chandelier over his bed. The candles had burned down to stubs, barely casting shadows in the dimly lit room. The feeble, gray light of the cloudy afternoon came through the room’s only window, but it did little to combat the shadows.
He felt numb. Cold. His tears had long dried, his anger buried beneath the weight of regret. Weeks had passed since he’d lost the West Riders, yet the pain hadn’t go away. It was like an ever-twisting knife to keep the fresh blood pouring.
He’d failed them all. He’d gotten five hundred good men killed. Sure, he could’ve joined Moran’s assault on the keep preventing their force from splitting. He could have stayed on the defensive and fought their pursuers. Instead, he’d chosen to run.
Isroc had just wanted to keep the West Riders safe, but he’d only gotten them killed. Now, his father’s legacy was gone. Everything Hallus had fought to build—Mordicon, Braygon, the West Riders—was gone. Isroc had failed all of it. The last bit of his father’s memory died with the West Riders. He told Adriel that he’d fight, but how could he?
Isroc had no family, no country, no purpose. What was the point of fighting?
He turned his tired eyes to the knife on his bed stand. He could do the world a favor and end it all; it’d prevent him from failing anyone else. Just reach out and it’d all be over…
Silas burst into the room, then paused to knock on the already open door. Isroc blinked at him as he rushed across the room, frowning. “You just going to keep lying around here while everyone else fights for you?”
Isroc simply stared up at the chandelier.
“Damn it, man. I know what happened was painful. I still hear their screams. But you’ve got to stop moping about. Please.” He turned to the pile of trays discarded on the table, food shriveled and forgotten. “It hurts me to see you like this.”
“I’m no good to anyone,” Isroc croaked, throat dry.
“Bah!” Silas threw his arms up. “Well, at least come see this. Someone’s here, at the gate.”
“Who?”
“You’ll want to see for yourself.” With that, Silas snatched up Sitare from his nearby bed and marched out the door.
Isroc groaned and raised up. His body was weak from days spent in bed. His muscles protested every step, but he stumbled out the door, weapons forgotten amid the piles of trays.
He followed Silas through the keep and out into the camp. The place bustled with activity, thousands of people pressing about each other as they went about their various tasks. Vilant marched in formation or trained in the few open fields. Others dug trenches and raised ramparts. Blacksmiths and tailors and cobblers worked among it all, and even makeshift stalls had been set up to distribute their wares.
Lines zigzagged through the tents where people waited their turn to speak with recruiters. Everywhere he looked, Isroc saw new Vilant. Since they didn’t wear uniforms, and few freedmen had proper clothes, the recruits had taken to wearing a white rag around their left arm.
Of course, it wasn’t all quite so military. People lounged about here and t
here, drinking or gambling. Others were kissing, even groping each other in open defiance of Charun’s prim propriety.
It was sensory overload. So many people and so much to look at. The colors, the smells, the noises. He just wanted to hide. Were those people watching him? What were they whispering?
For some reason, Isroc continued. He worked through the dense crowds and haphazard tents and eventually reached the wall.
People swarmed the gateway and battlements above, pushing and shoving for a view of what lay beyond.
Silas led Isroc deeper into the crowd. A small group of Vilant guarded the gatehouses, beating back the angry throngs. Isroc knew what this was, he’d seen it many times before. A mob. Angry and unbridled.
The mob split, and Adriel’s golden head bobbed toward them. People bowed and saluted as she passed. She turned and scanned the crowd.
“Off with you,” she cried over the din. The crowd began their shouts anew. “I will not repeat myself.” At this, the people dispersed, scrambling over each other to rush back into the camp.
Adriel waved a hand at a nearby boy. “Rion, find General Shara Dralmond and Captain Kari Barenda. Have them double the watch and prepare the garrison. We’ll need to be ready if he’s not alone.”
Adriel thanked the guards and gestured for them to open the gate. She sighed, sparing a glance at the now scowling Silas. “Don’t you even think about using that weapon of yours.” Silas shot her a glare, then the three stepped out into the rain-washed hills.
The slopes were green with early spring grass, windswept and battered by the days of rain. Frost lingered, pale and glittering beneath their boots. The occasional heather poked up from puddles and rivulets. The roads were little more than tramped trails of mud over mud.
Ada Arillius stood at the top of a nearby hill, just out of bow range. He hung there like a white shadow, white wolf fur cloak flicking in the breeze, hood draped over his scarred face. Silas raised his weapon at the sight of his brother’s killer. Adriel placed a hand on his arm, yet her other twitched for the sword at her hip.
Isroc looked up into that hood. The man who killed his father. The man who killed Joshua and Aren. Murderer of hundreds of innocent people.
Isroc was rushing up the hill before he knew what he was doing. No spear, no sword. It didn’t matter. He’d kill the man for what he’d done!
Then, he crashed to the ground, face meeting the mud. He struggled against Silas, but the man had him pinned. He screamed and fought but Silas only watched him with his steely eyes, a strange mix of anger and sadness on his face.
“He killed my father!” Isroc screamed.
“I know he did, damn it! He killed my brother too.”
“He killed Joshua, he killed Aren. Let me go. Let me kill him!” There were the tears again.
“Don’t you think I know that? I want to kill him too. But… damn it!” He embraced Isroc. The two knelt there for a moment until Isroc crumpled in the mud.
He couldn’t do it. Something stopped him, whether it was sadness or exhaustion, he didn’t know. Instead, he just lay there, a sobbing, pathetic mess.
Adriel stepped closer to the assassin, eyeing his lack of weapons. “What are you doing here?”
Ada removed his hood and let his ragged hair spill down his shoulders. He fell to both knees in the icy mud, his dark eye returning Isroc’s gaze.
“I have come to surrender myself. I place my life in your hands, and humbly ask for death.”
Silas raised Sitare, a single tear down his cheek. “It’d be my pleasure.”
Adriel placed a hand on his chest. “No. You can’t deny Isroc his vengeance only to try and take it for yourself. You could have taken it already, but you didn’t. Instead, you chose to comfort your friend.” She turned to Ada who remained kneeling, fists planted in the mud. “Why?” she asked.
The assassin met her gaze. “I walked a ledge for a very long time, and when I slipped, I found that I had been falling all along. I want to know what it feels like to have solid ground beneath my feet once more, even if it is only for a moment. I have betrayed every cause that I have known. This last time, I thought that I had finally found a cause worth fighting for. I was wrong. I was so very wrong.” He continued, voice raspy, almost broken. “The Acedens raze and pillage and kill for nothing. They rape. They slaughter. They take everyone that stands against them as slaves. They will not stop until the world is crushed beneath their boots.
“I cared only for gold, but I opened my eyes to the atrocities I fought for. I have so much blood on my hands, an ocean could never wash it all away. I killed Joshua Valfalas, I killed Aren Hayden, I killed Hallus Braygon. The names of every death haunt me. Take my life. Take it, that when I face the headsman’s axe, I will know in that moment that I have done one right thing in my life.”
A silence settled over the hilltop. The wind blew through brittle grass and frost with a soft moan.
Eventually, Adriel spoke. “If you have really turned against Iscarius and his Acedens, then you will not be opposed to providing us information before we take your head.”
Ada nodded and peered up at her for a moment. “I am afraid I don’t have much to offer; I was only Iscarius’ assassin. He would give me names and descriptions and I would take care of it. I never asked questions. I only took payment after—a healthy amount, far more than anyone could rightfully pay. Eventually, I began to believe his lies and—”
“So, you are saying you are useless to us.”
“No. Only that I do not know everything. I worked my way into Iscarius’ trust, thirty years I killed for it. But there are still things he would never divulge to me. But I will tell you everything I know.”
He stood and did just that. He spoke of his kills, captains and generals and even kings. Dissenters and malcontents. Anyone who showed too much interest in digging out the Acedens before they were ready to reveal themselves. That certainly explained the succession that led to Vanthe’s reign. Ada put an end to the king’s probing and left a void for rival claimants to fill. Of course, the man with Iscarius’ backing had taken the throne. That explained the Gray Lands and the army that slumbered for years under Vanthe’s nose.
Ada explained that they had armies in every country. Although he claimed he didn’t know the exact numbers, he estimated there to be over four hundred thousand. They had buried themselves deep in their own, serving in their stations until the time came to reveal themselves to the world. They had men and women among the Alliance, from servants to royal counselors. Not all of them had revealed themselves in the uprising, however. Like spiders weaving the last of their webs, they stayed in wait, reporting what they heard and saw to other Acedens. Spies were very likely among their numbers here now. Indeed, he gave them well over two dozen names. Of spies and high-ranking soldiers and even a few Vilant.
When Adriel pressed him on how long the Acedens had been planning this uprising, he didn’t have an answer. Perhaps he sought to avoid it, or perhaps he really didn’t know. Either way, it was evident by their organization that they had been in place for far longer than anyone cared to admit.
Ada did seem to know a few things, however. An Aceden army had risen in Kaanos months ago. However, their numbers were few, likely a result of Kaanos’ distance from Inveira where Iscarius’ influence was strongest. After conquering Inveira, Erias, Meres, and Charun, Iscarius’ Acedens were now marching into Kaanos to quell the resistance.
“Ethebriel, the king, is he alright?” Adriel asked. “Is he alive?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ada frowned. “The Acedens have claimed Dun Ara though. If Ethebriel survived the battle, then he is likely a prisoner. Iscarius intends to keep Ethebriel alive but the kings of Erias and Meres have been executed despite his orders. I can’t say if his wishes have been followed or not. I’m sorry.”
Silas turned from Adriel as she hung her head. “Dun Ara. It’s been taken then?”
Ada gave a grim nod. Isroc cradled his head in his hands. T
hat was it then. All of Tarsha, the entire world, now belonged to Iscarius. Kaanos, their last hope to fight back had been crushed. There was no reason left to fight.
“What brought you from Inveira then?” Adriel asked after a time.
“Iscarius holds Inveira firmly in hand, so he led his armies to take Erias. He left shortly after to oversee the assault on Kaanos; he’s in Dun Ara now, I’m sure of it. Malleus Taraus and I were assigned to lead prisoner caravans south. We were heading here, to the Gray Lands. After that, we were supposed to take the rest further south, though I don’t know exactly where.”
Adriel pursed her lips and watched the man with an unreadable gaze. “So, all the people you took for slaves eventually wound up here, working themselves to death for your wall?”
Ada bowed his head. “Yes. Most of them, anyway. Besides those mining cerebreum in Inveira and a few here and there at various camps. There are many moving south with the supply caravans, however. I couldn’t tell you where they’re headed though. Markadesh, or something like that. I’ve only heard rumors of the place.”
Adriel’s eyes widened at this. Isroc struggled to make sense of it all. So many different pieces at play. Did she know something he didn’t?
“Where is Malleus now?” Adriel asked, voice dark.
“We were heading east to pick up a slave caravan from Meres when we heard news of your force moving up behind us. I took that moment to flee, but Malleus knows that I have defected. Likely, he has gone around the wall into Kaanos. To this Markadesh perhaps.”
“That is where the war is. Kaanos. Everything seems to point us there.”
Ada sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help; I was kept in the dark despite my proximity to Iscarius. The man was a master of his secrets and I don’t believe he ever fully trusted me since I was a paid arrow.”
The assassin knelt in the mud again. “I have told you all that I know. I go to my death with a ready heart.”
The Shadow of War Page 23
