“I don’t have time. These men need my help.” He finished a knot with shaking hands.
Mithaniel frowned and noticed something red at his feet. He lifted a boot. Blood. He turned to see red footprints trailing through the snow.
He knelt with a sigh and reached out, pausing before he rested a hand on Cain’s shoulder. “You can’t save everyone.”
The two looked at the man whose breath had gone shallow. The bandage Cain had tied around his missing forearm was already soaked in blood.
Cain turned to Mithaniel, his dark eyes red, wild. “I have to try. I have to do something.” He looked back at the soldier. His breathing had stopped. “Shit.” Cain checked for a pulse before starting compressions on the man’s chest.
Mithaniel pulled him away, and the Warrior exhaled, burying his face in a hand.
“The Iscara sent a messenger,” Mithaniel said after a time. “They wish to speak with you.”
Cain looked up at him. “Why do they not attack us again?”
Mithaniel shook his head. He thought he knew, but should he tell him? Didn’t the man already know? “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask them that yourself.”
Cain nodded and called for two nearby soldiers to carry away the dead man. Mithaniel followed him out of the building and down the road to the courtyard. He couldn’t help but admire the way the Warrior handled himself, on the verge of tears one moment, the next back straight and confident. He was imposing in the way he commanded equal parts respect and fear. Men scrambled over themselves in their haste to follow his orders.
The two stepped out of the broken archway and approached the enemy camp. A frigid wind cut through the pale dusk.
Their leader waited before the palisades, watching them through the narrow slot in his helm. He stood like a hulking statue, arms behind his back, bear fur cloak rippling in the gust.
Mithaniel had a growing suspicion he knew who this was.
“Cain Taran.” His voice rattled, almost pained.
“You know my name.”
“Everyone in the five kingdoms knows your name. Do you know mine?”
“The helmet makes it a little difficult.”
“I wish to talk.” He nodded toward Ceerocai. “Nothing more.”
“You have an army at your back,” Cain noted.
“As do you.” He looked up at the soldiers who had gathered atop the wall to watch the exchange.
“What do you want?”
“To the point, I see. We want your life, Cain Taran.”
“Get in line.”
A hollow laugh escaped the man. “Surely you know by now that you will not leave this place alive.”
“I’ve accepted my death a long time ago. If Iscarius wants me, he can come fight me himself instead of sending his dogs to do his bidding. I’m disappointed he didn’t accept my invitation.”
Another cold laugh. “I am no servant of Iscarius. I’m here to take what he wants.” He pointed at Cain. “You.”
Cain stepped back. “You’re one of the Iscara who stood against Iscarius then. Your master is dead…”
“Abaddon can never die, his essence only changes forms. I will bring him back through you, through Ceerocai.”
Mithaniel ran his fingers along his sword’s handle. Unfortunately, there were several camps among the Iscara; most had joined Iscarius against Abaddon, but some—like this man and his ilk—continued the lost fight for Abaddon and the Forgotten. Their goals and motives were different, but one thing was certain: everyone wanted Cain Taran dead.
“If you want my life, then take it yourself.” Cain’s hand moved for Ceerocai at his back.
“No!” The Knight lurched forward, hand raised. “Using Ceerocai will only end in another Ekran.”
Mithaniel watched the other Iscara. So, it was as he thought, they hadn’t attacked again because they feared Cain’s unstable power. The Warrior didn’t know what he was, what he was capable of. Perhaps that was why Iscarius hadn’t yet responded to Mithaniel’s letter; he didn’t want to risk walking into Cain’s trap as unstable as the man was.
“Then I will kill all of you.” Cain wrapped a hand around Ceerocai’s handle.
“You may be eager to kill,” the Iscara replied, “but are your men? How many are left in there? How many are wounded? Starving? Frostbitten? You’re running out of food and out of options, Taran. Give us Ceerocai and give us your life, and we will spare your men.”
Cain looked at Seraphel again, to the faces of each man along the wall. He released his weapon and turned back toward the stronghold.
“You have made your choice, Cain Taran,” the Iscara called after him. “You will die inside those walls!”
Mithaniel snapped his eyes open. He looked around the dark barrack. Soldiers sprawled haphazard across the stone floor, bundled in rags and clustered together for warmth. A few managed to snore despite their uncomfortable positions. The meager fire at the heart of the barrack had long since dwindled to a glowing bed of embers.
Mithaniel crept to his feet. He avoided the beams of starlight trickling through the cracks in the walls and worked his way through the sleeping soldiers. He came to where Cain slept, his back against the wall and head hung low. He watched Cain’s chest move with each rhythmic breath, mist curling from his nostrils.
If Iscarius wasn’t coming, then there was no more reason for Mithaniel to delay. It was time to do what he came here to do. He needed to take Ceerocai and kill Taran.
He watched the sword cradled in Cain’s arms, its ruby bright in the traces of starlight. All he needed to do was reach out. It would be his. He’d waited too long, and now those other Iscara were here to claim it for their own devices. He had to take it to Iscarius while he still had the chance. All he had to do was reach out.
His hand hovered before him, inches from the sword. He could end the war here and now! So why did he hesitate?
He cursed softly and turned away, slipping back into the darkness.
Leaves and sticks cascaded down the hill in a shower of dirt. Silas wiped his face and crawled up next to Isroc. “How you’re still alive is a mystery to me,” Isroc chuckled, shaking his head.
“I often wonder that myself. I didn’t see anything unusual on the other side of the town.”
Isroc peered through the tree line across the field of winter grass. The trade town of Ilross sprawled in the distance. He watched it for a time, waiting for any signs of the enemy.
They were in a very difficult spot without the West Riders. Isroc had thought he could gather his father’s men and avenge Erias. With their five thousand, and another few thousand Alliance, Isroc could have routed the Acedens who dared betray their countrymen. But the West Riders were gone, and so too were his hopes. They were out of rations, out of time, and out of luck. It was no longer about revenge. For now, they simply had to survive. That’s why they’d walked the past week to Ilross with stomachs painfully empty and feet frozen, desperation the only thing driving them forward. The Vilant of Ilross had been their last resort.
Fortunately, they appeared to still be here. He spotted their piecemeal armor as they moved through the town, guarding over civilians as they worked. No Acedens. Maybe there was still some hope.
Isroc circled a hand over his head and his soldiers stepped from the trees and followed him across the field. An all too familiar scrape of wood resounded in the quiet afternoon. The Alliance soldiers dove behind their shields and drew their blades. Dozens of sentries appeared over the rooftops, longbows trained down on them.
Isroc stepped out of the wall of shields, hands raised overhead. Soldiers turned to aim their bows at him. “Relax, we’re all on the same side.”
“And how do you expect us to believe that?” a man called down to him.
“Isroc?” a voice cried. “Is that you?” Isroc turned to a group of men jogging toward them. One of the soldiers waved and yelled. “Damn it, man! We figured you’d be dead by now!”
Isroc gaped at the man as his sto
mach gave a disbelieving flip. “I never thought I’d see you bastards again!”
“You just can’t get rid of us, can you?”
“If only,” Isroc laughed as they embraced. “I grow weary of seeing your ugly face, Hargus!” He clapped the soldier on the arm and looked over the group of grimy, battle-scared men. Each soldier bore a polearm on his back and an arming sword on his hip, and the crest of the West Riders on his chest.
Moran stepped beside Isroc. “Care to fill us in?”
“Of course, right. Moran, these are my father’s West Riders,” he extended an arm out over the group of ragged fighters.
Moran tilted his head at the soldiers. “Is this all of them?”
Isroc opened his mouth but paused. Hargus answered, “We are more, the rest are back in camp or working the defenses. We’re down to five hundred. We lost many a good man in Braygon.”
Isroc frowned. “I saw what you left behind. Your families, children. I thought you were all dead…”
Hargus nodded gravely. “But we survived. We are here to serve you, Isroc Braygon, as we served your father.” He swept an arm in an Eriasan salute. The others followed suit, snapping to attention. “Forgive me for not introducing myself, friends,” he said, shaking the hands of the other Warriors and Moran. “I am Captain Hargus Defall, son of Vrinus.” The stout man turned and beckoned them to follow. “Come, your men must be cold and tired.”
“And hungry.” Silas added. “Bloody hungry.”
“Ha! We will feed you like kings. So long as you don’t mind tack bread!”
Silas cursed. “Better than a sharp stick in the ass, I guess.”
The West Riders turned and led the Warriors and their army into Ilross. The grind of armored boots heralded their march through the town.
Isroc looked to the surrounding buildings. The town had changed since he’d been here last. Soldiers marched where children once played. People went about their work with hard, downcast eyes instead of greeting each other with a smile and a wave. Nervous faces watched them from cracked doors and windows. The town was strangely quiet despite the bustling crowds. A tense, somber silence weighing in the air.
Ahead, men dug into the clay and rock, cutting wide ditches for latrines. Everywhere, men worked—carving wood, pounding stakes, digging trenches. Ilross had gone from a trade town to a stronghold. In the distance, Isroc could see the beginnings of a tall palisade wall.
“Where are the women,” Adriel asked, “the children, the merchants?”
Hargus shook his head. “All of them left a few weeks back apparently, save a few that took up a sword. They left for Caethiwed where Eriasan troops were last known to be gathering. I guess they thought they’d be safer there with regular soldiers than this militia. That was before most of our forces showed up here, at least. The Vilant tried to get them to stay put but the people were scared, desperate. Once a few left, they all left…”
The West Riders and the Warriors reached the end of the main road and came to an expanse of grass and snow. Mountains towered high overhead.
Row upon row of tents stretched across the field, split into three separate sections by ditches and palisades. The green tents of the West Riders covered the west part of the field, the white of Eriasan soldiers in the north, and the patchwork tents of the Vilant to the east and south. Men toiled in the ditches and the surrounding forest, slowly extending the trenches and ramparts around the entire town.
Hargus turned to Isroc. “We’re grateful you brought us more men, but we will have to find room. Space is a little tight as you can see. There should be room for your men in the north and west camps. We’ll resupply your troops and tend to any wounded. Here, come with me. There’s someone who will want to see you.”
Isroc dismissed his men and followed Hargus toward the many-hued tents, eager for a chance to rest after weeks of marching. Vilant whispered among themselves as they watched the Warriors pass.
These were outcasts. Rejects. The broken. The lame. The too young and the too old.
The war did not want them, but they wanted the war. Women forbidden by law to fight set aside their dresses for leather and mail. Even farmers brought their harvests along with sickles and scythes. The disfigured, the sick, the mangled and forlorn, the pariahs of society joined the struggle.
They wore everything from rags to fine linens. Some bore armor from generations before them, either too large or too small or too rusty. An eccentric and enterprising few walked about in the black or scarlet armor of the andreds or arzecs. A more conventional lot wore layers of leather, cloth, or even brigandine in imitation of the soldiers on the opposite side of the camp. They wielded bows, axes, maces, hammers, spears, pitchforks, billhooks, and occasionally a fine Aceden sword. Isroc thought he even saw a few andred and arzec weapons.
Hargus led them through the crowds of civilian soldiers to a large pit where cook fires crackled, and the sweet smells of lintel soup hovered in the cold air.
A man stirring one of the pots turned from his work. He threw his hands up in a flourish, striking the pot and spilling hot soup over the grass. He cursed and gripped his knuckles. “Warriors!” he cried.
Isroc arced a brow. “Jiran?”
The man approached with a toothy smile. He removed the pipe from his mouth long enough to exhale a ring of smoke. “The very same.”
The leader of the Vilant seemed scarce a leader. He reeked of sweat, of blood, of long days under the sun. His leathers clung like rags to his spindly frame. The long sword at his hip looked as worn as the rest of him.
“I never thought I would see the lot of you again,” Jiran exclaimed. “You made it through Inveira in one piece then?” His smile dropped at their downcast eyes.
“You seem to be doing well for yourself here,” Isroc said after an uneasy silence.
“We’ve held the enemy off for now, though not without our share of bloodshed. I’ve sent word across Erias for every citizen to pick up a weapon and join the fight. With the army all but out of the fight, it’s up to us to win this.”
“We will need more than old men with pitchforks and boys with knives to defeat the Acedens,” Moran grunted.
“I don’t disagree, friend, but you’d be surprised at what these boys and old men can accomplish. They want their peace just as much as any soldier and they have the right to fight for that. This is the people’s war, now. This war we will not lose.”
The Warriors, Moran, and Jiran ringed the fire pit, heartily gulping down bowls of lintel soup as they discussed the ordeals of the past months. The firelight glowed orange against the surrounding tents. Distant laughter and talk echoed in the quiet night.
“I can’t believe King Branim betrayed his own country,” Jiran mused, puffing on his pipe. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“The bastard is dead,” Moran replied, pounding a fist on his breastplate. “Killed him myself.”
“So, these Acedens, they are all Inveiran?”
Isroc shook his head. “No, there’s too many stories of them rising up in Morven and other places. This rebellion has spread farther than we could have thought possible. The entire world is probably under Iscarius’ thumb by now.”
Jiran sifted through a satchel filled with tobacco leaves. “An empire then? Most troublesome. What could the Acedens possibly gain from taking Tarsha? If Abaddon really is dead…”
Isroc set down his bowl of soup and met Adriel’s gaze. The Acedens wanted power, domination. But they also wanted Cain. How did he fit into all of this?
A woman’s scream cut his thoughts short.
“What was—”
A volley of flaming arrows arced overhead. Isroc dove for the dirt as broadheads thumped into the ground around him. Nearby, arrows plunged through tents and spread fires through the camp. Cries echoed in the darkness.
Isroc jumped up, spear ready. “Moran, round up what Alliance you can. Adriel, you’re with Jiran; gather the Vilant. Silas, come with me. Everyone needs to pull back to the town; t
he camp is done for!”
Isroc shot forward with Silas at his heels. Together, the two men dove through the flames.
Arrows rained down death from darkened skies. Corpses littered the path like torches to light their way. Isroc hurtled over roaring flames and smoldering bodies and slid to a stop at the edge of the camp.
Ahead, the West Rider camp bustled with activity. His soldiers quickly donned armor and formed ranks, shields raised against the barrage of arrows. Isroc stumbled through the blood and snow, his men cheering at the sight of him.
He ducked behind a soldier’s shield and arrows thudded against the wood. The volley ceased. He peered out over the palisade to where a mass of solid black rolled straight for them.
The Acedens.
Adriel ran through the inferno. Flames lashed about her and nipped at her ankles. The heat was already overwhelming, stifling in the cold winter night. Men and women died around her.
A man stumbled out before Adriel, flames rolling from his body as he screamed and flailed. Adriel shoved past the poor man and came to a group of Vilant hunkered behind the palisade wall.
A mighty quake rocked the town. Every man and woman cried out as the ground shook. “By the Towers, what is that?” Jiran cursed, pipe still in mouth.
A formation of horses erupted from the trees. However, these were no ordinary cavalry. Each mount pulled a strange cart of brass tanks and hoses. Adriel gasped at the sight of the machines. Chariots!
The machines of war roared to life and spewed forth terrible streams of fire. The great plumes engulfed the palisade, catching several Vilant aflame. A second wave sent bodies tumbling in an explosion of molten debris. This was no ordinary fire. It clung to everything, ravaging and burning, instantly incinerating flesh. Shrieks briefly pierced the thunder of hooves, replaced by the crackling of cooking corpses.
The machines weaved through the mangled, blazing palisades and slipped through the gaps. They charged into the Vilant’s muddled ranks and unleashed a firestorm over the terrified citizen soldiers. Blinding reds and oranges flashed in the dark as men and women burned alive.
The Shadow of War Page 8