“Start over, and this time move left.” He pointed. “Go!”
“You’re wasting time,” Urmaeor’s deep voice said. “There’s no need to teach them how to maneuver.”
Less than pleased at being interrupted, Shadrael said, “By the last report, Light Bringer is sending four legions to Ulinia. Together with the Ninth already in place, that will be twenty-five thousand men against these four hundred. If they can’t maneuver, this rabble will die in the first charge.”
Urmaeor chuckled. “Such a dismal perspective. Are you so easily cowed these days, Commander?”
“Faster!” Shadrael barked at the men, before glancing at the priest beside him.
Lines of fatigue were carved into Urmaeor’s face, and the rash mottling his skin was worse. Shadrael had seen lepers that looked healthier. His bloodshot eyes looked feverishly bright. He kept his hands tucked out of sight within the wide sleeves of his robes, but Shadrael saw the peeling blotches of skin on his throat and smelled the rot of his body beneath a mask of herbs and other fragrances. Lea is doing this, he told himself, then closed away all thought of her.
“Dregs,” he said now, “versus Imperial soldiers. Call that dismal if you want.”
“All these men need do is attack on command and hold their weapons properly.”
Shadrael quelled his annoyance. No emotions, he reminded himself. Since the day he’d come to the Vindicants, he’d shut away damaged pride and resentment in order to take command of this ragtag force, ignoring the triumphant little smirk on Urmaeor’s face. He didn’t allow himself to fret over the impossible task before him. It was simply what he had to do.
“Given six months, I’d have them fit,” he said.
Urmaeor sighed. “You’re thinking like a fool. You have days to prepare them, not all winter.”
“If you’re expecting Thyrazene help, Light Bringer’s arrival will melt it.”
“Just speed up their training.”
Shadrael frowned. He knew just how fast a legion could move when required. The Eleventh was now stationed northwest of Ulinia. It could be here in a matter of days. As could the Tenth and Second.
Shadrael’s gaze swept across the muddled chaos before him. “Halt!” he shouted. “Line up!”
The men straggled to comply, most of them failing to come to attention. Many were chatting among themselves, slack and openly defiant; others were gazing around, trying to impress their comrades by puffing out their chests and looking fierce. The rest just stood, dumb and passive, no doubt wondering how long until their next meal came.
“The empire is starting to teeter. He’s losing ground, and we are gaining it. We have,” Urmaeor said with intense satisfaction, “the upper hand over him. And he will come straight into our trap here, as surely as though we control his mind.”
Shadrael thought the priest might as well be holding a honeycomb under a hornet’s nest. He held his tongue, but Urmaeor smiled.
“Do you think so?” the priest asked, clearly having discerned that thought in Shadrael’s mind. “I want him angry, rash, and ill prepared. I want him moving toward us quickly. Think of him lured out here”—Urmaeor gestured at the desolate landscape of lava stone, barren ridges, and scattered boulders—“so isolated, so . . . vulnerable. The positioning is perfect for our purpose.”
“Even if he brings idiots for generals,” Shadrael replied, “the sheer numbers will defeat us.”
“Is this the confident victor of numerous battles?” Urmaeor asked sharply. “Have you lost your nerve along with your magic, Commander?”
Once, Shadrael would have killed him for that. Now he sent Urmaeor a stony look and said, “Any good leader mistrusts such uneven odds. These men will die in the first charge. What else are you providing me?”
“Wait and see.”
Urmaeor turned away, but Shadrael blocked his path.
“If I’m to plan an effective strategy, I must have information.”
Anger contorted Urmaeor’s face. “Who said you are planning the strategy? Do you think you can return to us, after refusing to obey my orders before, and be trusted implicitly? You have lost your soul and your magic. You are slowly going mad. You are a rogue donare at best, and an ineffectual coward at worst. When the time comes, you’ll be told what you should know. And you’ll do as you’re told.”
His words were cruel, designed to hurt as much as the stoning. Shadrael bowed his head, focusing hard on nothing. His muscles had grown rigid. He found it hard to breathe normally.
Urmaeor laughed softly. “I’m glad to see that stiff pride of yours mastered. And if it will relieve your anxiety, your brother has pledged his army to our cause.”
“Vordachai?” Shadrael’s head snapped up. “He’ll never support you, not after—”
“The warlord has changed his mind.” Urmaeor’s mouth stretched in a vulpine smile. “The ransom demand for Lady Lea was sent to New Imperia in his name, you see.”
Shadrael saw immediately. Despite his efforts to protect his brother, Vordachai had been implicated in the plot after all. Shadrael’s mouth compressed. It was all he could do to ignore the feelings that threatened to engulf him.
“Did you really think to keep him out of this conflict?” Urmaeor asked scornfully. “When his whole aim is to pull Ulinia from the empire?”
Reckless, impulsive Vordachai, Shadrael thought in exasperation. Too passionate to be prudent, he had never been clever enough to think his way completely through any situation. The priests had manipulated him as skillfully as they were now luring the emperor into their trap.
“The warlord is busy summoning his barons and levying their armies,” Urmaeor went on. “The entire Ulinian force will be joining us in a matter of days.”
Which meant, Shadrael thought, a force equal to one Imperial legion. Not enough men. “Who,” he asked, “are you putting in command, Vordachai or me?”
“That,” Urmaeor said coldly, “remains to be seen. Now get these men ready.”
Stepping off the boulder, Shadrael walked down the ragged line, his thoughts carefully marshaled beneath a mental list of assessments and tasks to be done. Urmaeor, he realized, might be obsessed and zealous, but he was no fool. With a force of five legions, Light Bringer was obviously intending to crush Ulinia into submission. He would enslave the people, execute the warlord and barons, and burn the Vindicants to ashes with whatever magic lay at his disposal. For Urmaeor to calmly dismiss this threat meant that he and Lord Barthel were devising a trap with all the evil and shadow magic at their disposal.
Even so . . . Defeat of Light Bringer . . . who had broken the world and destroyed both Beloth and Mael? What did the Vindicants have planned?
Shadrael frowned. Dangerous to wonder. Pointless to speculate.
Abruptly he picked out the five men he’d observed executing the drill maneuver correctly. Among those five, now to be his centruins, was Fomo.
Wearing good armor and new boots, Fomo looked well armed with daggers, a sharply honed sword, throwing stars that Shadrael recognized as his own, and a maul thrust through his belt. He came smartly to attention, sucking in his cheeks so that his tattoo shifted in a lewd way. His small, vicious eyes stared straight ahead in the correct army manner, aiming somewhere past Shadrael’s left shoulder. He was wary and tense, with good cause, Shadrael thought, having deserted his commander just before arrest.
As faithful as a prostitute, Shadrael thought. As loyal as a flea to a dog. He wondered what else Fomo had spent his money on, money gained from selling Lea’s necklace.
“We meet again, Centruin Fomo,” Shadrael said tonelessly.
Fomo held army discipline, refusing to move or react.
Shadrael turned to address the whole assembly. “These men I’ve selected will be your centruins,” he said, projecting his voice so that it could be heard by all. He used the standard spiel given to all new recruits. “If you don’t know what a centruin is, you’ll learn fast. Your centruin will train you, see you’re housed an
d fed, and punish you when you commit infractions. You will obey your centruin’s orders as you obey mine. Without question. Without hesitation. If you get yourself in trouble, take your problem to your centruin. You are being paid to serve this army. You are now sworn to its service. Your loyalty will be absolute. That means my orders are your law. Disobey, and you will be punished. Desert, and you will be hunted down and killed. You are now a cohort. You will train as a cohort, and you will learn to fight—together—as a cohort, relying on each other in training and battle, for your survival.”
He paused, surveying the men. Most were listening to him. A few, at the far end of the line, were not. He took note of who they were, lodging their faces in his memory.
“When the additional warriors ride in”—he watched the men’s attention perk up—“you will remember that you are a cohort. You will keep to yourselves. You will wear your insignia of Cohort One at all times. You will obey the chain of command that your centruins will teach you.”
Turning, he pointed at one of his new officers, a tall, gangly man with a gnarled face and the scars of old army service. “You there, pick out a company of men. We’re short a full complement of five hundred, but make your choices. You”—he pointed at the next centruin—“will have second pick, and so on. On my dismissal, fall out your men, and set them to drilling.”
A groan rose from the line. The centruins, however, watched Shadrael without moving. He had given them rank and authority. For now at least they might be willing and eager to show what they could accomplish. He felt certain that at least half of the five had never been more than common foot soldiers, but if nothing else they could march correctly. He needed their experience, however scanty. As for Fomo, easily the most intelligent and experienced among them, Shadrael had deliberately given him the last choice of men. Fomo would get the worst of a sorry lot, and he’d be the first to whip them into fighting shape. If the other centruins possessed any sense, they would observe and learn from him.
Shadrael lifted his chin. “That is all.”
He strode away, ignoring the howl of complaints and the barked commands of the centruins as they started choosing and sorting.
“No, Excellency! I beg you to reconsider.”
Buckled into full armor and wearing his crown of spun gold and emeralds, Caelan left Chancellor Brellit and his advisers without another word, refusing to listen to more protests.
He strode through the palace into the women’s pavilion and went up the alabaster steps leading to the empress’s private apartments. He was determined to tell Elandra the latest news, including his decision to leave his court today, before anyone else did.
Within her rooms, so luxurious and serene, he stepped past the bowing eunuch who ran her household and saw her waiting for him. She wore flowing garments of azure and cream. Her auburn hair was pulled back from the smooth oval of her face, and a small diadem of yellow diamonds glittered on her brow. In her slender hands was his sword, draped with a cloth of Mahirin silk that shimmered many colors in the light. Her clear eyes looked stern and peculiar, as though she were fighting back tears.
Halting in his tracks, Caelan frowned. “You know?”
A smile almost curved her lips, but failed. Her eyes never left his. “My informants brought me the news this morning. She is found, praise Gault.”
“Located, but not freed,” he said grimly, his emotions trying to escape the tight control he held over them. “The Vindicants have her.”
Elandra blinked in surprise. “Vindicants! But I was told Warlord Vordachai of Ulinia demands her ransom.”
“Officially, yes. But I have a better spy than yours, beloved.”
Pink tinged her cheeks. She lifted her chin high with an expression of resignation that her eyes belied. “Then you will not send your generals in your stead. You are going.”
Her statement asked him no question. He gave her no answer save a fleeting smile. Tears suddenly sparkled in her eyes, but she blinked them back as she came forward.
“Your sword has been blessed,” she said formally. “It is ready for your hand. My prayers for your success and safe return lie upon it.”
He lifted the weapon from her grasp, letting the cloth slide off the blade and across the back of his hands. As it did so, he felt the tingle of its magical properties upon his skin. He felt stronger and more capable than before. His mind was clear, filled with all he intended to do. He had never loved Elandra more than at that moment of parting.
“The court believes I am riding out today to inspect a new company of archers just arrived from Cumbria.” He hesitated, concerned about telling Elandra details that would only worry her more. “I shall travel to Ulinia as swiftly as possible.”
Elandra nodded, her eyes searching his face as though she meant to memorize every angle and line of it. “By Choven means?”
“You must take care,” he warned her, dodging her question. “I fear to leave you and Jarel unguarded here with plots so rife—”
“Let your mind be easy about us,” she interrupted, pressing her scented fingertips to his lips. He kissed her hand, making her smile. “Keep safe and come home swiftly,” she whispered. “That is all I ask.”
“Keep safe,” he echoed back to her, and kissed her hard before pushing himself away. “I must go.”
She murmured something, but he was already striding out, his protector falling into step at his heels as he left her.
Keep her safe, Caelan prayed to Gault. Let her come to no harm while I am gone.
Chapter 18
The night they were to come for her, Lea could not rest or choke down any food. Although the jailer had given her several blankets, she huddled on her cot in the orange flicker of torchlight and shivered, unable to get warm.
She had never been more afraid.
Although burned, Lord Barthel had survived, and Lea had been left alone. For days she’d done her best to disrupt the Vindicants, singing when they chanted their evil prayers, smiling at the jailer every day so that now he smiled back if they were alone and provided her with decent food and plenty of clean blankets. She called with all her might to the air spirits so that the clouds gathering daily over the camp parted every afternoon and let the sun shine down. Most of the priests fled from sight whenever she was escorted through the camp; none of them would meet her gaze. When her terrible sessions with Lord Barthel resumed, she had to be carried—weak and swooning—back to her cell. Only then did they emerge to hiss curses at her.
She suspected they were planning a battle against her brother. Bits of overheard conversations informed her that Shadrael had come, but never had she seen him. She was not sure she wished to. How could she bear to see his cold, shadow-sworn eyes look at her with indifference? Twice she’d thought she heard his voice shouting out orders in the distance, and it had felt as though stakes pierced her heart.
Late this afternoon, she’d heard a spell being woven, something so dark and dreadful it made her turn icy cold just to hear it. She could not be sure, but she suspected it was a blood curse, which meant they had decided to feed Lord Barthel her blood. Tonight she would die, unless she used her tiny gli-emerald to destroy him first.
To kill . . . to deliberately strike with the intention of taking life . . . it horrified her. Such a violation of all her principles, planning an attack in cold blood, and yet what else could she do? She would not let him make evil use of her. She dared not give him a greater weapon against Caelan than he already had.
With his black cloak swirling at his heels, Shadrael strode through the gloomy passageways until he came face-to-face with Urmaeor.
“I must speak to you,” he said to the priest. “At once.” Urmaeor’s haggard face looked gaunt and tired in the fitful torchlight. He was carrying a bowl of blood that smoked and stank. “I am too busy.”
“Is that blood?” Shadrael asked, stepping closer despite Urmaeor’s cautious recoil. The acolytes behind Urmaeor closed ranks, but Shadrael ignored them. “I smell blood potio
n,” he said. “I heard the blood curse being chanted. I need—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I must have something.”
“Later,” Urmaeor said without compassion. “This is tal vei hadri, most sacred.”
“And potent,” Shadrael said, staring at the bowl. “Let me drink of it.”
“Are you mad? Such is forbidden to you!”
“Who will know?” Shadrael gestured at the gawking acolytes. “Cloud their minds and let me drink. I perish from craving.”
“This is for Lord Barthel,” Urmaeor said curtly.
“All of it?”
“All. And it’s not finished.”
A chill ran up Shadrael’s spine. “The girl.”
“Yes! Now let me pass.”
But Shadrael didn’t budge. “The chief priest doesn’t need her blood for full transformation. He can—”
“Yes,” Urmaeor said as Shadrael broke off in surprise. “You used to be more clever, Shadrael. I thought you would have guessed before now what we’re doing.”
“I’ll lead no force of the dead,” Shadrael said sharply.
“You will.”
“No.”
Urmaeor glared at Shadrael, who didn’t back down. “You will follow the orders you are given and obey Lord Barthel without question. How dare you interfere?”
“The girl’s magic is Choven based. You cannot mix Choven and Vindicant magic,” Shadrael said, trying to make him understand. “You will get the high priest killed.”
“Your concern is touching, but I know how to cast this spell. Lord Barthel will rise to lead us, and the army of dead will destroy the usurper.”
Shadrael made no effort to mask genuine horror. “And who will command the dead on the battlefield? I—I cannot control such a force,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not as I am now.”
“All you will do is distract the advance legion with your little cohort. Vordachai’s men will harry the soldiers from the flank. Once the usurper is pushed into our trap, Lord Barthel will unleash the dead. The scent of fresh blood will draw them into the fray.”
The Crown Page 18