What else could he do? Shadrael asked himself. If Lea was to have a chance of freedom . . . if Vordachai was to be given the slenderest hope of survival . . . there was no other choice to make. Shadrael drew a deep breath, steeling himself. “Agreed, if the girl is released at dawn.”
Urmaeor leaned across the altar toward him. “Make the cut, and she will be.”
Shadrael’s fingers closed around the small knife. It was dirty and dull, the bronze blade too soft to kill with, even if he threw himself across the altar and aimed for the priest’s heart.
“Quickly!” Urmaeor said intensely. “Or I shall know the truth behind your hesitation.”
For you, Lea, Shadrael thought. For you, my brother. And swiftly he slashed his wrist.
Chapter 22
At dawn, Shadrael, his face implacable, his dark eyes as cold as stone, strode out into the wintry morning and mounted his horse.
The cohort of mercenaries stood silent behind their five centruins. By contrast, from over a nearby ridge came the sound of Ulinian cheers as now and then Vordachai’s unmistakable bellow echoed on the air.
Ignoring the noise, Shadrael said nothing to the men before him. They looked hollow eyed and less than ready to fight. He hardly blamed them, for if they got even an inkling of the fate intended for them, they would bolt at the first opportunity.
Fingering the bandage wrapped around his left wrist, he waited in grim silence until he saw a horse come into sight, picking its way across the Vindicant camp. Thirbe held the reins, and Lea—bundled in a blanket—rode in front of the protector’s saddle.
Just the sight of her sent a mixture of emotions churning in Shadrael’s chest. After returning to his cell, he’d lain awake all night, worrying over the situation while Thirbe and Hultul slept or pretended to sleep. He’d expected the Vindicants to punish him for what he’d done against Lord Barthel, and so far there’d been little retaliation, other than forcing him to renew his oath to shadow. Punishment would come. Of that, Shadrael had no doubt.
As for the blood oath itself, he felt sick about it and ashamed. This morning he carried a repulsive little talisman to be given to Vordachai when the time came. Shadrael did not trust Urmaeor to have put protection on him and his brother at all. It might well be the reverse, and the dead creatures might come for them before they attacked the emperor.
Impossible to know . . . impossible to prepare a defense for. Wearily Shadrael told himself that he’d done all he could. As for Lea’s release, he feared a trick. The priests were devious. This might not be Lea at all, but simply a phantasm to fool him.
Frowning with suspicion, Shadrael pushed his horse through the activity to approach her.
Lea was awake, her blue eyes dark and enormous in a pale face. He wanted her to speak, if only to prove she was real flesh and blood.
“Lady Lea,” Shadrael said formally, saluting her.
She gave him a slight nod, but that was all. As she stared at him, disappointment seemed to fill her eyes.
Aware that this was probably the last time he would ever see her, he frowned, swept by a sense of unbearable loss. He knew he could not forgive himself if he did not tell her something of what he felt. And yet how could he, when they had no privacy at all?
“I wish to thank you for all you’ve done,” he began.
She simply stared at him, looking hurt, while he wanted to curse himself for sounding so stiff, unpleasant, and ungrateful. Small wonder she was gazing at him like a wounded doe.
Impulsively, he leaned over and gripped her hand, hanging on when she would have drawn away.
Thirbe glared at him, bristling like a guard dog, but Shadrael ignored the man just as he tried to ignore Urmaeor standing a short distance away, watching them closely.
“Lea, thank you,” Shadrael said quietly, urgently. “You have given me a gift beyond imagining. I owe you everything.”
“Yet you’re going to squander your life,” she whispered, her blue eyes peering right to the very heart of him. “You’re going to throw it all away.”
He looked down, unable to lie to her. “The sword will always be in my hand. I’ve regained my soul, thanks to you, but I can’t change what I am.”
“And still you do not understand.” Tears filled her eyes. “Free yourself, and come with me, please.”
Although he longed to sweep her into his arms and hold her tightly, he forced himself to release her hand and sit back in his saddle. He loved her so much he ached. “My place is here.”
“Not willingly!” she said in distress. “Shadrael, I know he has coerced you. If it is for my sake, if it is to make them let me go, then I—”
He leaned over and kissed her, possessing her sweet mouth until it yielded to his. When he drew back, yearning to gallop away with her, he saw pearly tears rolling down her cheeks. He took one, tucking it into his glove for luck, and regretted all they might have had together if only . . .
“I’m sorry, Lea,” he said. “I can’t ask you to wish me victory, for soon I will be fighting against your brother. I can only say, Gault bless you for all you have done. Go now, and keep safe.”
“If you continue,” she said sorrowfully, “if you go to fight, then terrible tragedy awaits you.”
An involuntary chill ran through him. Was this prophecy she spoke? he wondered. He shook off his doubts impatiently. All war held tragedy. “Your sympathies must side with your brother,” he said stiffly. “I understand.”
“No, you understand nothing—”
Urmaeor, however, was suddenly standing at his stirrup. “Your touching farewells have been spoken. Lady Lea, you are free to go. Do not keep our commander from his assigned tasks. As for you, Protector, remember you have given us your pledge to take her to Kanidalon and nowhere else.”
As he spoke, he stroked the neck of Thirbe’s horse. The animal shifted with a nervous whinny, and Thirbe—looking preoccupied—curbed the horse harshly.
Urmaeor gestured. “Begone, Lea E’non!”
Her gaze shot to Shadrael as though she would speak, but he was already reining his horse away. As he did so, he gave Thirbe a curt nod. The protector spurred his horse to a trot, heading in a direction opposite to the battlefield.
Urmaeor chirruped to the raven on his shoulder, and the bird flew after Thirbe and Lea.
Shadrael frowned uneasily. His instincts continued to tell him something was wrong. This was all too easy. Urmaeor was being too agreeable. Shadrael stared very hard at the priest’s back, and after a moment Urmaeor sent him a stony glance.
“My minion will inform me if he tries to circle around and warn the emperor,” Urmaeor said. “But I think the spell I’ve cast on his horse will see him straight to Kanidalon.”
Shadrael nodded, forcing his emotions down to a cold, unhappy place. The symbol painted on his wrist in blood—a reminder of his reluctant, renewed oath to Beloth and Faure—seemed to burn his skin as much as his conscience, yet it had been worthwhile to see Lea go free. Urmaeor had won his little game for the time being. Let him be satisfied, Shadrael thought.
“Satisfied? Never,” Urmaeor murmured. “It begins, Commander. If you want to survive this day, you and your brother both, then you will do exactly as I have ordered.”
A Ulinian horn sounded from over the ridge to the west, and more cheers rose in the distance from Vordachai’s camp. Shadrael’s horse tossed its head, prancing eagerly.
“Go,” the priest said, touching Shadrael’s boot and sending a frisson of magic through him. “Hurry, or the warlord will not wait for you.”
Shadrael turned his gaze toward his men. They were no army, he thought in contempt, yet even so he felt the old habits stirring inside him, causing him to straighten in the saddle and face them with the cool assurance of a born leader.
“Men,” he said, projecting his voice so that it rang out in the cold dawn air. “Today we face Imperial legions, the toughest opponents in the world. But they fight under the banner of a nameless man, a former slave, und
eserving of the throne he holds. We fight to bring down the usurper! We fight to break the injustice of Imperial law! We fight for ourselves! Let every one of you face your foes as though a demon rides your shoulder.”
A halfhearted cheer rose from them. He studied them from beneath knotted brows.
“There will be glory awaiting you.”
They hooted in derision.
“And plunder.”
They cheered.
“The more kills you tally, the more weapons and armor you’ll bring home. We’ll melt down the usurper’s crown and strike new coins for every one of you.”
Lusty cheers. Eagerly they laughed, brandishing their weapons.
Shadrael drew his sword and held it aloft. “For Beloth and shadow!” he cried.
And they echoed his war cry: “For Beloth and shadow!”
Without glancing back at Urmaeor and the other Vindicants, Shadrael led forth his rabble to die.
Clad in plate armor polished to a dazzling sheen, Vordachai was riding his horse in restless circles and brandishing his sword in a waste of energy that made Shadrael frown. As soon as Shadrael arrived, however, the warlord bellowed a welcome.
“Well met, brother!” he shouted gladly. His eyes were shining, and his bearded face burned red with excitement. “I thought this day would never come, eh?”
“The last time we met,” Shadrael said, keeping a wary eye on the warlord’s sharp sword, “you were out for my blood.”
“Old quarrels.” Shrugging, Vordachai dismissed the matter. “Do you think I can hold a grudge today? The usurper is within our grasp at last!”
Glancing swiftly around, Shadrael drew his brother out of earshot of the nervous barons and any possible Vindicant spies. Fomo was close by, but not looking in their direction. Shadrael watched the former centruin for a moment through narrowed eyes, but Fomo strode away, shouting at some of the men, and Shadrael turned to his excited brother.
Under the pounding of the war drums, he said urgently, “Vordachai, this is a trap.”
“Of course it is. I have scant use for Vindicants at the best of times, but if they’ve conjured a nasty surprise for the usurper, so much the better.”
“No, hear me! The Vindicants don’t care if your men are massacred with the Imperial troops. If we withdraw now, we stand a chance of escaping.”
Vordachai’s expression froze. “Withdraw?” he roared so loudly several men glanced their way. “I, Vordachai tu Natalloh, Beloved Lord and Master of the Mountains and the Sand, withdraw? Tuck my tail between my legs like a worm-afflicted dog and slink away? Are you mad? I’ve cut out men’s tongue for less—”
“Vordachai—”
“No! Impossible! I’ll listen to no more of this!”
“You have to listen,” Shadrael said. “Damn you, stop yelling and heed me, or you and Light Bringer will both die today.”
“If the usurper falls, then I am blessed of all men,” Vordachai announced. “I’d gladly forfeit my life if this wish is granted to me.”
Shadrael swiftly spat on the ground to deflect such bad luck. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “Do you want to see your barons and the whole Ulinian army massacred as well?”
“If necessary.” Vordachai lifted his bearded chin. “We will have died to set Ulinia free. No matter what you think, you whining pustule, we will have covered ourselves with honor.”
“There’s no honor in walking blindly into a trap just to satisfy a clutch of exiled priests too frightened to step into the sunlight. They are the cowards. Why aren’t they here, to fight beside us?”
Vordachai was staring at something. Realizing his brother wasn’t listening, Shadrael scowled at him. “What’s the use of talking to you? I’m trying to help you, you fool.”
But the warlord pointed at the ground, where the rising sun was throwing a long shadow out behind Shadrael. “What’s happened to you?” he cried in amazement.
“What do you think?”
“You’re different. You’re casting a . . . Look!” Joy filled Vordachai’s face. He gripped Shadrael by both arms and shook him until his teeth rattled. “Can it be possible? Is Gault this merciful? Have you regained your soul?”
Wincing, Shadrael twisted free and pulled out the talisman. “At least carry this for protection.”
Vordachai ignored it. “Tell me straight. Are you human again?”
“Why should it matter to you?”
“Why not tell me?” Vordachai stared at him in open wonder, scrutinizing him so closely that an embarrassed Shadrael looked away. “Are you not rejoicing in Gault’s mercy? Are you not pleased by this?”
Tangled emotions, too knotted to explain, crowded Shadrael’s throat. He felt his eyes going moist, and fought to keep himself from becoming unmanned. “Yes,” he muttered. His gaze went unwillingly to the bandage on his wrist. “I rejoice,” he said, wishing he could confess the truth to his brother. “But what matters now is that we forget this battle and—”
“And what? Let him go? I can see that your wits must be tumbled, but this is no time to lose your head and start preaching encompassing love like a Reformant monk. Think of it! Fighting the usurper, Light Bringer himself! When will we ever again have this chance?”
“He’ll never take the field,” Shadrael said.
“It will be glorious.” Vordachai was obviously not listening. “Our names will be sung into legend. On this day we’ll free Ulinia from the yoke of oppression.”
Shadrael gripped his arm. “You cannot win this battle, Vordachai.”
“Does that matter?” Vordachai’s brown eyes met his. “I will have fought him. I will have stood up and defied this tyrant. Besides”—Vordachai spread his arms wide—“he has named me a traitor and an outlaw. He has put a price on my head as though I am a common road bandit. A former slave condemns me! The insult is too great. I can never forgive it.”
“Vordachai—”
“No! This is my chance to be great, and I must seize it. Think of it, brother,” he added, laughing in sheer excitement. “The emperor himself, forced to come to my corner of the desert just to swat me down. What can be more glorious?”
“Winning.”
Vordachai gave him a swift grimace of agreement. “Well, yes, that much I will grant you, sour face. A victory would be joy beyond all expectation. A delight, a boon from the gods. But even so, I shall be content just to fight him.”
“But—”
“I will have rattled his power a little. I will have pinched the bully’s nose and made him squeak, even if for only one day. Gods, Shadrael, is it not marvelous? This battle is the sublime moment of my life. How can I turn away now? And you . . . I don’t understand you at all. I thought you would be itching to get your hands on a sword and meet the man that’s treated you so shabbily.”
Shadrael felt his old resentment stir.
“Yes,” Vordachai said, watching him. “The man who wronged you. Light Bringer!” he whispered, curling his fists. “Here, for the taking, as we’ve always dreamed.”
Shadrael blinked. “In what nightmare? You talk as though you have him cornered.”
“It can be done. It can be tried. Ulinia could rise again. Think of the glory!”
“I’m thinking your wits have left you,” Shadrael said in a blighting voice. “Five legions against your army . . . you’ll lose half or more of your men in the first charge.”
“He doesn’t have five. By all accounts, he came early to Kanidalon, ahead of his forces. As for the Ninth Legion . . .” Vordachai twiddled his fingers airily. “Polished breastplates and no substance. Their commander is a fool. No match for us.”
Shadrael caught his brother’s arm urgently. “The Ninth can fight, and you’re forgetting the Second and Tenth. They’re seasoned enough to cut us to pieces. As for the Vindicants—”
“May the pox shrivel their parts and drive them mad.”
“You and your army are the bait, and they will let you be destroyed.”
“So be i
t.”
“No! If they raise the dead to fight—”
“Can they do that?” Vordachai asked, wide-eyed.
“I think so. And once their foul army is unleashed, Urmaeor won’t be able to control it. The creatures will attack everyone on the field. Everyone! Do you understand why I want you to retreat now, while it’s still possible to escape?”
“But I can’t back down, not before the emperor,” Vordachai said, blinking. “He would think I fear him.”
“Write him a letter of explanation. But don’t give your men to the Vindicant slaughter.”
Vordachai frowned, beginning to look doubtful. “If you’re sure—”
The sounding of trumpets cut him off. Vordachai stood in his stirrups. “They’re coming onto the field.”
Shadrael gripped his arm. “Back off now while—”
“Not when they’re entering the field!” Vordachai shook him off. “Now stop talking like a toothless old woman and tell me squarely—do you stand with me or do you intend to retire like a coward?”
Shadrael glared at him, but it was obvious that Vordachai wasn’t going to listen to sense. It was like trying to stand against a mighty sandstorm and blow it onto a new course with his puny breath. He sighed. “I stand with you.”
Vordachai beamed. “That’s the spirit!”
“But in Gault’s name, take this!” Again, Shadrael proffered the talisman.
Vordachai eyed it with distaste. “Why do you give me such a filthy thing?”
“To protect you from what’s coming.”
Vordachai’s brows knotted. He stared at Shadrael. “Wear blasphemous shadow protection when my men, my barons, have none? What do you take me for?”
Heat crept up Shadrael’s throat into his face, and his cheeks burned. “Damn you! I’ve broken my conscience to obtain this, and by the gods you’re going to wear it.”
Vordachai grabbed it from his hand and threw it under the trampling hooves of horses. “And here I thought we could fight shoulder to shoulder, like brothers should. If turning human has made you a coward, then I’m ashamed to know you. Ashamed, Shadrael.”
The Crown Page 24