Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  Osirit was a long way from Ispor. But Razkili was still Razkili. If he had offered his service to Taelyn, there was no more to be said. And in truth, he could find no fault in Rascal's decision. Quite probably, they both owed their lives to Taelyn.

  Innowen bit his lip. "Watch your back, then." He sighed as he lay back down and covered his eyes with an arm.

  Razkili broke the silence that threatened to grow between them. "Look at me," he said cheerfully. "I'm filthy, and I smell, though not quite as bad as you did before you washed. Where's that waterskin?"

  Innowen opened his eyes and smiled. He'd been using it as a pillow, waiting for his chance. "Right here," he said, unstoppering it. He squeezed with both hands. Razkili gave a yowl, shielded his eyes, and lunged. Laughing, they fought for possession of the skin until Razkili wrenched it away.

  "Now your cot's all wet," he chided, rising over Innowen.

  Innowen grinned with satisfaction. "So's yours."

  "Well then," Razkili said, dropping the skin and sweeping Innowen's kilt and breech cloth to the ground. "We might as well drown in one bed together." He stretched out on his side by Innowen on the narrow cot, folded one arm under his head, and draped the other over Innowen's waist.

  Neither said anything more. Innowen looked into Razkili's eyes until they closed softly. Then he watched the delicate quivering of the pale veined lids. Breathing was the only sound he heard. Razkili's chest rose and fell against his. It was warm in the tent, and his sunburn itched where their bodies touched, but he kept still.

  "You stink," he whispered.

  "Road cologne," Razkili murmured wearily.

  Innowen felt the exact moment his friend fell asleep. The arm on his waist suddenly relaxed, and Razkili's face composed itself into a perfect semblance of peace. Dream, Innowen wished him silently, dream the world away.

  There she was again, the Witch, stealing into his thoughts.

  Perhaps he shouldn't have come home to Ispor. The land seemed under a curse, and he'd found nothing but trouble. Chohlit, Chalandri, Sucrebor. Now Parendur. And tonight, Razkili would leave him to fight at Taelyn's side.

  He hated the day, hated the heat and the bright sunlight. Even more, he feared for Rascal. He touched his friend's side and left his hand there. He could feel the heartbeat within, the breath, and, he imagined, the soul sleeping under his palm.

  Strangely, he found himself praying that darkness would never come.

  Chapter 8

  Innowen held the reins of their horses while he waited for Razkili to emerge from the tent. Darkness had fallen. All around, Taelyn's soldiers hurried to complete preparations for battle. They moved with speed and surety and relative quiet. Taelyn had changed his order, allowing a few small fires, which dotted the landscape and made a ruddy chiaroscuro of the faces of men who gathered near them. The flames gleamed on the burnished helms and greaves of the higher ranking soldiers as they passed, giving orders in low voices.

  A hushed expectation hung over the army. Every sound seemed muted and distant. Even the four-spoked wheels of the light war chariots made little noise as they formed a line at the edge of the camp.

  Veydon and three other men approached, their arms full of packs and bags. "Commander Taelyn thanks you for the gift of your extra horse," he said to Innowen. "May we place your belongings inside your tent?"

  Innowen nodded without speaking and watched as the four went inside with his collected treasures. Even a poor packhorse was too valuable to be left behind when a common hoplite soldier might be turned into a more efficient cavalryman. Nor did he begrudge its loss, considering the beautiful gift of armor Taelyn had made to Razkili.

  The three pack-bearing soldiers emerged and returned to their own preparations. Moments later, Razkili and Veydon appeared. Innowen regarded his companion with a mixture of worry and approval. The copper greaves and arm braces he wore gleamed with inlaid silver traceries. The new leather that lined and made them comfortable gave off a pungent odor. On his right arm he bore a small round shield entirely of metal, a rarity, decorated in relief with battle scenes. Innowen worried about its weight, though Razkili said nothing. Under his left arm, he carried a bronze helm. Its nasal bar and cheek-pieces nearly met, so closely did it guard the face, and a bright crest of crimson-dyed horse hair cascaded over the top and down the back. From a strap over one shoulder he wore a short, straight-bladed sword. His only other garment, like most of the mounted soldiers, was a brief black kilt.

  "Your friend was very generous," Razkili said of Taelyn. "These are finely made pieces. I had to widen the braces a little to make them fit; my forearms are bigger. I hope he won't mind."

  The pieces were from Taelyn's ceremonial armor, which explained their beauty and workmanship. The commander had planned to wear them when he reentered Parendur after a successful engagement with Chohlit. Instead, he had offered them to Razkili for the upcoming battle, preferring to fight in his familiar war-worn pieces.

  "I doubt the commander would have given them to you," Veydon said with a smirk, "if he expected to have them returned in perfect condition."

  "The shield is too heavy," Innowen commented critically. "You should take a wicker shield or one of the wood and leather ones."

  "I can manage," Razkili answered. "This metal will turn a point far better."

  "Not if you can't get it up in time."

  Razkili transferred the helm under his right arm to his shield arm and patted his friend's shoulder. "You worry too much," he chided.

  Their gazes met, but Innowen kept his silence. It would do no good to argue. They had done too much of that already. Yet he resented being left behind. While night cloaked the world, he could ride and fight as well as any man. Both Razkili and Taelyn had denied him that right, though, as if he were still handicapped and some kind of liability.

  Veydon broke the tension. "I've got to finish my own preparations," he said. He wore neither weapons, nor armor, only the black kilt and his sandals. "But I make you this offer, Osiri. If you are unhorsed you'll need a spear-mate to fight at your back. Mine was killed in the clash with Chohlit, so my back is also bare. Do we suit each other?"

  "You honor me," Razkili answered. "Draw your horse beside mine when we join the line."

  Veydon nodded, then clasped Innowen's shoulder before he left them. Innowen watched him disappear between a pair of tents.

  "I should be your spear-mate," he said to Razkili when they were alone, "instead of watching everything from the safety of some hilltop."

  Razkili took his reins from Innowen's hand. There was a stubborn look on his face. "And if the fighting continued past dawn, what then?"

  Innowen turned away. "It won't."

  "It could," Razkili snapped in a whisper. Clearly, he was tired of the argument. "We've got a good ride ahead of us, yet, and it will be well past midnight when the first arrows fly. Now mount up. We should join the line."

  Innowen bit his lip and fumed. "Give me your damned helmet, then. You can't mount with all that."

  Razkili looked at him for a moment, then put on a strained grin and shook his head as Innowen took both his helmet and shield and held them while he bellied onto his horse's back. "Thank you," he offered, taking them again.

  Innowen gave a bare acknowledgment as he climbed upon his own horse.

  A rider passed through the camp, issuing a last call to form ranks. Innowen gave a quick glance around. Most of the fires had been extinguished, and there was no moonlight yet. Shadowy forms moved quietly and quickly among the tents, heeding the calls of shadow captains, streaming out over the dark land, all gathering in a huge mass beyond the edge of the camp. Like shades, Innowen thought morbidly, repressing a chill. As if most of them were ghosts already.

  Razkili tapped his arm to draw his attention and nodded toward that same mass. Innowen bit his lip. There was nothing more to be said. He nudged his animal into motion and headed for the front line.

  They were among the last to leave the camp, but as they c
ame around the final tent, they met Taelyn and two of his officers. Taelyn wore the plain gold breast plates and helm he had used in the attack on Chohlit. He sat proudly upon his horse, and the wind streamed his helmet's crest behind him. A sword hung at his right hip, and on his right arm he carried a large round shield. In his left hand he gripped an immense lance. "Ride beside me," he instructed them, and they steered their mounts to his right side, while his officers took up position on his left.

  They rode through the ranks in that formation, and the soldiers parted for them, all eyes turning to their commander. At the rear of the ranks were the nearly naked hoplites, common footmen, who made up the largest part of Taelyn's force. They wore sandals and small black loin cloths and carried short stabbing swords and shields and longspears. The barest leather caps protected their heads, some sewn with rings of metal and some with rows of boars' tusks.

  Next came the ranks of the slingmen. These represented the poorest men who could not yet afford good weapons or armor, but who nevertheless had chosen to join Minarik's army. They wore nothing but sandals and loin cloths and pouches on their hips, which held their throwing stones. Some draped their slings around their necks, and some tied them around their waists. Many wore them tied as headbands across their brows until they were needed. A few of these men would be lucky enough to snatch better weaponry from the fallen once the battle began, and if they survived, they might be allowed to move up into the ranks of the hoplites for the next battle.

  The archers held the middle position. Like the slingmen, they wore little armor. Many did, however, don the hoplite's protective leather cap, and a few wore braces on their arms. The bows they carried were of several kinds, both curved and recurved, and their quivers bristled with reed-shafted and wooden arrows. Many also carried secondary weapons in their belts, usually daggers or short swords, sometimes axes or crude, stone-headed clubs.

  Eighty mounted men made up the cavalry. These were the officers and wealthier troops who could afford horses and better arms. Metal helms, some of elaborate design, covered their heads and necks. Greaves and braces protected their limbs, and a few, like Taelyn, wore plates of copper, bronze, or gold to guard their chests. Some carried round shields, and some the rectangle. Some wore the short sword at their hips, and others the longer bronze blade that tended to bend easily and nick, but offered the extra reach. All carried the long, slender lance, which was a horseman's primary weapon.

  As Taelyn rode among them, they raised their lances in salute, and he acknowledged them with a lifting of his own.

  At the head of the army were the chariots, each a light, two-horsed wicker unit built to carry one warrior, who was both driver and fighter. Javelins filled permanently mounted quivers on each side of every vehicle, and every driver wore a sword. In all other respects, the drivers armored themselves like the horsemen, except that their helms were metal caps only, and their throwing arms were left bare.

  The two centermost chariots moved forward at Taelyn's approach and withdrew to either end of the line, leaving a space for their commander and his companions. Innowen glanced down and discovered why earlier they had seemed to move so quietly. The wheels had been bound with cloth and strips of leather to muffle any noise made by their passage. Taelyn obviously meant to keep the element of surprise as long as possible.

  As Taelyn took his place at the fore of his army, another man rode up and quietly positioned himself behind him. Bound across the shoulders of his mount was a pair of large drums. It would be his job to stay near Taelyn throughout the fighting, no matter where his commander went, no matter how thick the battle, and the thunder of his drums would relay his lord's commands across the field.

  Suddenly, another horse raced around the farthest chariot and made straight for them. Abruptly, the rider jerked back hard on his reins, stopping before Taelyn.

  "Nearly late for the battle again, eh, boy?" Taelyn said without rancor.

  Veydon grinned as he tossed an extra lance to Razkili. "Well, old sir," he said, "even in war, one should make a good entrance."

  Innowen eyed the young soldier. His muscled flesh gleamed almost as if oiled, and its deep color made a rich contrast against the highly polished bronze of his unornamented armor and against the dark hide of his mount. Like most soldiers, he disdained a riding pad and rode the animal bare, close up to its shoulders, holding the reins low in one hand. It might have been a throne, the way he sat so proudly.

  "Especially in war," Taelyn agreed. Then, more sternly, he instructed, "Now take your proper place, horseman. The cavalry is behind me, not in my path."

  Innowen spoke up, looking past Razkili. "If you will, Taelyn, as Razkili has offered his service to you, so has this soldier offered service to him as his spear-mate." He looked at Veydon, and the warrior smiled back at him.

  "That's well done," Taelyn answered. "Then he may ride at Razkili's back." He looked again to his young officer and added, "but that's still with the cavalry, and that's still behind me." He waited, then, as Veydon rode sheepishly between Innowen and a chariot and took a position beside the drummer. Innowen overheard Taelyn as he tapped Razkili's knee and whispered with an almost fatherly pride, "You've chosen well, Osiri. He handles a lance better than any of my other men."

  Then Taelyn turned to the officer on his left side. "Pass the word as we march," he ordered. "If we make the first ridge before the moonrise, a one hour's rest will be every man's reward. Tell them to march well, and march in silence." To the other officer he instructed, "Choose two horsemen for scouts and send them ahead."

  They waited until a pair of riders disappeared in the forward darkness. Innowen took the time to study Razkili at his left side. The Osiri looked so calm and steadfast in his armor. Innowen felt naked beside him, no shield on his arm, no lance in his hand. He felt the eyes of the army on his back, and he imagined he heard their thoughts. They wondered why he carried no weapons. They wondered at his courage. They wondered why it was that he walked by night and needed Razkili to carry him like a doll in the daylight. He could hear them, he was sure he could.

  He rolled his gaze to the heavens. The Crown of the Gods stretched across the sky, and the Great Scythe hung low in the north. He shivered suddenly and looked again at Razkili. He wanted to pray, but he'd grown convinced that the gods never listened.

  Except for one god whose name he didn't know. There you are again, he thought, and the Witch of Shanalane was suddenly in his mind, unchanged by the years, as beautiful as his memory could make her. You protect him, then, he thought. Protect us all.

  But she was just a memory, and memories, by themselves, had no power.

  A muffled drumbeat sounded just behind him and swiftly faded. Without looking over, Razkili reached across and squeezed his knee. Like a great beast in the darkness, the army lurched forward, eerily quiet but for the hesitant creaking of the chariots and the soft rhythmic impact of hooves and sandaled feet upon the earth.

  It was the stuff of songs, Innowen thought, as he felt the breeze caress his cheek. Silent armies, midnight marches, battles by moonlight. But when a song was done, the singer collected his coin, picked up his drink, tuned his instrument, smiled at his audience, quite safe and quite alive.

  He felt the wind on his face again. It urged him to dance. Not yet, he told it, not yet.

  The army moved smoothly over flat plainland until it reached the first foothills of the Akrotir Mountains. There, forces broke up into smaller waves which crested each hill and waited for the next wave to start up before descending. They progressed slowly in the darkness, careful to lose no horse or chariot wheel to unseen ruts or holes. No man spoke now, not even in a whisper. From any summit, the night could carry a voice a considerable distance.

  The moon floated slowly above the eastern hills. Its weak radiance lit the hilltops and filled the valleys with shadow. Taelyn led the way down into blackness and up again into light. Finally, when they reached a place deep enough and dark enough to shelter all his troops, he called
a rest. Waterskins were passed around and abandoned when empty; they wouldn't be carried into battle.

  While others dismounted to rest, Taelyn rode quietly to the summit of the next hill. Innowen tapped Razkili's arm, and together they followed. Veydon, too, joined them.

  "Another hour's march," Taelyn said in a low voice as they pulled up by his side.

  "You've brought us a round-about way, Commander," Veydon whispered. "These hills are taking a toll on the men and horses both."

  Razkili joined the discussion. "Is there no road or pass to this city of Parendur?"

  "If you were the leader of a siege force," Taelyn answered with the patience of a father addressing a favorite son, "where would you most likely station your patrols and watchmen? Yes, there's a road, but I want to keep the element of surprise."

  "So we come at them out of the foothills," Veydon said needlessly.

  Innowen listened with half an ear, but his eyes turned toward the looming darkness of the Akrotir Mountains in the south. He felt their presence like a ponderous weight upon him, and they oozed an oppressive mystery into the air that he could almost smell. He inhaled deeply. Somehow, his sight seemed sharper, and he could make out the jagged outline that challenged the sky. All his senses took on a finer edge. The wind sang upon those far peaks.

  "You're very quiet," Taelyn said to him.

  "It's this place," Innowen answered reverently. "It commands quiet."

  They grew silent and listened to the stillness, twisting with a strange conservation of motion on their horses' backs to gaze in all directions. Each pair of eyes, though, inevitably turned toward the Akrotirs and lingered there.

  Razkili reached across the space between them, and his hand settled on Innowen's knee. "We'll have to separate soon," he said gently.

  Innowen listened to the wind as it danced down from the mountains and flowed over the hills and valleys. He felt it coming like a delicate tide rippling the air before it, and smiled wistfully when it brushed over him. "When we find a high hill that overlooks Parendur," he whispered, "there I'll leave you and watch the battle." He gripped the hand on his knee and held it as he turned to Taelyn. "Give my horse to one of your footmen. I won't need it, and another cavalryman will do more damage than a hoplite."