The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  The machines tore a swath of destruction through the Vilant and released another wave before spinning their horses back around. They rode over still dying men, crushing bones and breaking flesh. The chariots slipped out of the walls and wheeled around, driving back toward them. Behind, a blackness spilled from the trees. Acedens charged toward the burning camp.

  “Shield wall!” Isroc boomed over the pounding of enemy hooves. The West Riders thrust out their spears and round shields to form a solid ball of steel. The soldiers waited and watched, peering through the gaps in their defense toward the swiftly approaching hordes.

  “Chariots!”

  Wave upon wave of horses descended upon them, burdened with great metal machines. They crossed the field in an instant. The ditches were long and deep enough here that the chariots couldn’t get too close, but that did little to stop their attack. Jets of molten fire crossed the gap and crashed down on the palisades. Shields glowed red-hot with the intense heat. Fires clawed up the timber stakes and spilled over the tops, slowly trapping the men where they stood.

  Silas turned to Isroc behind the searing shields. “Did you like the soup? It was a little salty, but I’ll take it over tack bread any day. I wonder if Jiran made it.”

  Isroc shook his head in confusion. Had the heat gone to his brain? “What are you getting on about?”

  The palisades collapsed in a wall of fire. A few chariots rushed through the flames toward them, spewing death. The shield wall crumpled beneath the blaze.

  “Sometimes you have to live a little before you die!” Silas shoved a burning man aside and stepped from the shield wall. He picked a shield from the dirt—still flaming—and tossed it. The fiery shield struck a chariot driver in the head and threw him out of the cart, causing the horse to jerk away and collide with another chariot. Silas yanked his belt knife free and lobbed it at an Aceden as he rode by, brass barrel aimed at him. Horse and cart rolled by, the body bouncing against the cart’s wall.

  Silas returned to the shield wall to an uproar of cheers. Just like Isroc thought, the man wasn’t all there. “Now, who’s with me?” Silas cried. The West Riders howled in response and burst onto the offensive.

  Fires engulfed scores of charging men, but the West Riders held firm and dropped several chariots with well-aimed spears. Horses crashed into each other and errant flames ignited tanks. Explosions riddled the air as massive clouds of fire blossomed in the night sky. The few remaining chariots wheeled away from the fighting and slipped away through the destruction.

  “Shields!” Isroc ordered as his men started to give chase.

  A barrage of arrows smashed into them. Those too slow to react dropped like stones. The West Riders formed another shield wall and moved back toward the relative safety of their camp.

  The earth trembled beneath their feet and the West Riders looked to each other anxiously. “Stand your ground, boys.” At this, hundreds of Aceden soldiers appeared through the fire and smoke. Their weapons glinted in the harsh red glow. “Stand your ground!”

  The Acedens crossed the trench and ran up the slope to meet their shield wall.

  Isroc hooked his messer on the lip of an Aceden’s shield and ripped it away before driving the sword into his attacker’s throat. “Hargus!” He kicked a man into the ditch. Acedens rushed up around him with weapons raised. “Round up the horses and meet us at the main road! Take Second Company with you!”

  Hargus pulled his arming sword from a body and lifted a horn to his lips. He blew three short notes followed by two shorter notes. The men at the back of their small army gathered around Hargus, and together, they withdrew through the smoke.

  Adriel aimed an arrow at a passing chariot, the driver’s bow trained on her. Adriel’s broadhead drilled through the man’s face and he tumbled out of the cart, his arrow whizzing inches past her face.

  She looked to what remained of the Vilant dying around her. The Acedens swarmed them, footmen pouring over the trenches and palisades to attack from three sides. Chariots spit fire over their muddled ranks, lighting paths for Aceden infantry to cut through. Small groups of Vilant charged the enemy but were cut down in moments.

  Jiran gave the ominous call. “Retreat!”

  Acedens leapt over their fleeing foes, dragging bodies into the slurry of fire and blood and snow. A chaotic mess of Acedens and Vilant crashed about in the ruins of the camp.

  “No!” Jiran screamed. “Regroup!” Adriel and Jiran watched the Vilant flee every which way, their terrified screams cut short by enemy blades.

  A nearby woman’s cry pulled Jiran’s attention away and he dashed through the fighting. Adriel cursed at the complete chaos before her and chased through the smoke after him.

  Jiran tripped over an arm and fell among the bodies. He half stumbled half ran through the corpses to a woman laying among the gore. He pulled her from the bloodied grass, clutching her tight. “Are you hurt, Shara?” he asked as he looked the woman over, her leathers stained red.

  The woman tore herself from his arms and crawled over the corpses, gripping her wounded thigh.

  She paused as she reached one of the bodies. A spear stabbed clean through his chest to pin him to the dirt. Blood pooled in a puddle around him. He stared up into the moonless night, fires reflecting in his lifeless pupils.

  “Heric! No!” She fell over the body, tears coursing down her bloodied face.

  Jiran rushed over her. “We must go!”

  Shara howled as she beat him away, clawing and punching and kicking.

  Adriel glanced over her shoulder at the two Vilant. “You may want to hurry, Jiran!” She raised her sword as a group of Acedens approached.

  Adriel fended off their foes as Jiran wrestled the screaming woman onto his back. He trudged forward and led Adriel into the town with hundreds of Acedens at their backs.

  “Fall back!” Isroc shouted as he pulled his spear from a man’s gut. “Fall back!”

  The West Riders broke from the fighting as Acedens washed up the trenches and crashed over them. They retreated through the chaos, men clashing among the blood and mud and tearing at each other’s throats. Isroc cut through the press of Acedens and led his men toward Ilross. Eriasan soldiers battled here and there amid the flames, steel and screams echoing beneath the roar of fire and the rumbling of collapsing buildings.

  The Acedens met them. The force of the collision sent both sides rolling over the other, corpses tossing and bodies breaking. Men hacked away with mindless ferocity as the narrow streets forced each side into cramped, shoulder-to-shoulder fighting. Isroc battled among the tangle of bodies. Blood painted the air and mixed with the red of the nearby fires. More and more Acedens joined the fray, their sheer weight of numbers pressing the West Riders deeper into the town.

  Vilant appeared up ahead and crashed into the Aceden flanks. They smashed deep into the enemy’s side, dropping scores of men until the Acedens pulled from the fight and retreated toward the camps.

  “They’re regrouping for another push,” Isroc cried. “Let’s go. Hurry!” He led his West Riders and the Vilant through the streets until they came to the main market road.

  Vilant and Eriasan soldiers were gathered here, anxiously peering over their shields toward the surrounding buildings. Acedens descended on them from all sides.

  Hargus appeared on horseback through the throngs, leading a roan courser. Isroc took the horse’s reins and swung into the saddle, spear overhead. “Hargus, pull the West Riders out of the town! Find a path out for us!”

  He then turned and weaved his mount through the thickets of bodies and clashing blades. He came out beside Adriel and Jiran, both beating at a line of Acedens that had cut through their defenses. “We have to go!”

  “We can hold!” Jiran cried over the din.

  Isroc grabbed the back of the man’s tunic and pulled him into the West Riders’ ranks. “We’ll die here then. Let it go, your people are more important than a few buildings!”

  Jiran cursed. “Ilross is los
t! Retreat!” The defenders pulled from the fighting, screaming and cursing as Acedens crushed those who fell behind.

  Isroc scrambled through the chaos of tumbling corpses and clashing soldiers, jumping over bodies and shoving through panicked Vilant. He led his soldiers along their flank and cut down Acedens as they gave chase.

  He joined Adriel and Jiran, and together, they left behind a burning Ilross.

  Answers

  Snow trickled down to settle on the bodies like ivory shrouds of silk. Soldiers crowded around the storehouse, its collapsed roof and broken walls exposing rows upon rows of stiff, cold corpses.

  Of course the storehouse had been destroyed. That was just Cain’s luck. He’d had all the men—those that would listen to him, that is—collect their provisions in this one building. The building had suffered a few stray bolts of lightning, and now most of their food had gone up in ashes. They’d managed to salvage some, but it hardly mattered. The hunger would grow worse. Then the treason would start.

  Cain placed the last pieces of rotted wood and stepped out of the building. He took a torch from a soldier and tossed it through the doorway. Flames leapt up to engulf the bodies, greedy tongues licking up the stone walls and caved roof. Soldiers looked on in silence, fire glowing in their eyes.

  Cain turned from the scene, the intense heat clawing at his back. He couldn’t let his men see their leader break down. He had to be strong. There was still fighting to be done.

  A sentry approached him through the crowd, a look of unease in his wide eyes.

  “Sir,” the sentry whispered. “There’s Iscara. More of them.”

  Cain nodded. He’d expected this.

  He followed the sentry to the wall walk. Mithaniel was already there, peering out over the mountaintop.

  “Is Iscarius out there?” Cain asked, stepping up beside the man.

  “No, he’d have come forward by now. I don’t think he’s in the area, or at least he doesn’t know we’re here yet.”

  Cain sighed. Even after Abaddon’s Iscara had arrived, Cain still held out hope that Malecai would face him here. He’d taken a gamble, presenting himself as an easy target in the hopes his enemy would take the bait. Well, nothing was ever that easy.

  He looked out over the field to see a new group of Iscara approaching, this one twice the size of the other. In total, nearly a hundred Iscara.

  “They’re making camp away from the others,” Cain observed. He watched the new group pitch tents and dig trenches along the mountain’s edge as far away from the other camp as possible. A strip of rock and snow split the two.

  “They’re Iscarius’ Knights.”

  Cain nodded toward the first group of Iscara. “I suppose it’s better than reinforcements.”

  “Save now we have two enemies to deal with. And both want you dead.”

  “Can we count on them to fight against each other?”

  “Perhaps. We killed more than a few of Abaddon’s loyalists, so there’s no love lost between us. But both sides want Ceerocai for themselves. It’s possible they could set aside their differences long enough to take Seraphel.”

  “Maybe I can make a deal with the loyalists.”

  “It’s doubtful. Both sides want your head, remember?”

  “All too well.”

  Despite their superior numbers and the weakened state of the stronghold, the newcomers didn’t attack. Instead, they raised their tents and built fires. The smell of cooking meats soon wafted in the air. They probably assumed they could starve the Alliance out. That, or they didn’t want to turn their backs on their rival Iscara.

  Cain nodded. Yes, he could use that to his advantage.

  Isroc stared at the bloody spear abandoned at his feet.

  He hated killing. Andreds and arzecs were one thing, mindless monsters bent on destruction. But killing another man… well, it never got any easier. It was just so senseless. They could have had peace, but instead so much death and sorrow, and for what? It was just plain pointless.

  He looked up at the noonday sun and wiped his brow, sweaty from the long night’s run. All around him soldiers tended to their gear and cleaned their weapons. Nearby, rows of the wounded lay in makeshift stretchers.

  Moran approached, great sword propped on his shoulder. “We are wasting our time here. We need to counterattack; hit the enemy while they are weak. You said it yourself. Every minute we waste… are you even listening?”

  Isroc pulled his gaze from the fresh graves. “We will, but our men are tired and beaten and many of the Vilant have just lost their home. You speak of action but the only thing these people need right now is to mourn their comrades.” He waved an arm out over the Vilant digging new graves. “Surely you can understand that, General.”

  “I know death, better than anyone. But we can’t afford to sit around; we’re easy targets out here, bloodied and alone. We need to fight.”

  Isroc picked up his spear and began cleaning it with a rag. Moran yanked him to his feet and pushed his bushy face into Isroc’s. “You said we would fight, yet you’ve done nothing. Do you know what I think? I think you’re a coward.” He shoved Isroc back and stomped away.

  Silas stepped up beside Isroc and watched the man go. “What crawled up his ass?”

  “Don’t bother.” He sat down with a huff and scrubbed at his spear.

  “So, what’s your plan?” Silas asked. “You do have a plan. Right?”

  “I’m sorry. For once, I just don’t know.”

  Adriel and Jiran approached. “Have you assessed your casualties?” Jiran asked.

  Isroc sighed. “I lost one hundred and eleven West Riders and two hundred and thirty-five Eriasans. Moran lost nearly two hundred Inveirans. With the wounded and missing, we’re down a thousand good men.”

  “We survived,” Jiran replied. “That’s what’s important.”

  Adriel shrugged with a glance at the wounded. “Not all of us were as fortunate.” Shara Dralmond lay strapped on a nearby stretcher, screaming and cursing the skies.

  Jiran placed a hand on Isroc’s shoulder. “I know your losses were grievous, we all lost brothers and sisters last night. But Moran is right, we have to keep moving.”

  “I know. Have your men ready to march within the hour. We’ll head north to Seraphel, gather Cain and his men, and—”

  “No.” Jiran looked out over the hills to his army. “The Vilant are volunteers, not soldiers, they go where they want. They do not die for generals or kings. They would die for their families, their homes, their people, for blood. We have our own fights to fight. For now, at least.”

  Isroc nodded. He’d feared as much. “It pains me to see you go, Jiran, but I will not try and dissuade you. Perhaps we will fight side by side again one day.”

  The two men clapped hands.

  Adriel brushed her hair behind an ear. “I’m going with Jiran.”

  Isroc blinked. She wanted to leave? She’d been with them since the beginning! He choked down his disbelief. “Why?”

  “They are uncertain, untrained, scared. But they have passion. I believe they can do great things.”

  Jiran bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Adriel nodded. “Let’s move out.” Jiran smiled and ran off, shouting orders.

  “You want to leave us?” Silas asked.

  “I don’t want to. But I believe I can do good things with the Vilant. Jiran tries but he is only one man, he needs help if the Vilant are to meet their potential. Besides, he’s right. Erias’ armies are scattered and broken, the other countries are probably in the same shape. It’s the people who must fight now.” She paused, smiling. “It’s the people who will win this war, and it’s time I start fighting for them again.”

  Hundreds of Vilant plodded through the ravine, the soil soft and stones slick with recent rainfall. Snow clung to the trunks of trees or glistened from green boughs. The treetops trembled in a cold wind.

  Adriel’s mind drifted toward Cain as it so often did when she let it wand
er. She wondered where he was and if he was alright. What could he be planning? Could she find him in time to save him from himself?

  Thinking about that wool-headed fool did nothing but frustrate her. She huffed and wrapped her cloak tighter. The days were growing shorter and colder. And here she had thought Charun’s winters were bad.

  Jiran laughed at her, that damn pipe of his puffing like a chimney. How could one man possibly smoke so much? Didn’t he ever run out of tobacco?

  He glanced over his shoulder again and Adriel followed his gaze to the handcart he tugged along. Shara lay among sacks and barrels, bundled in furs, her head bouncing with every bump in the path. The man acted like her grandfather, always fussing over her covers and making sure she had plenty of food and sleep.

  “You are always smoking,” Adriel said in an attempt to distract the man from his worrying.

  Jiran chuckled. “And the sky is blue.” He glanced up. “Well, gray, at the moment.”

  “Do you have to smoke so much? It couldn’t possibly be good for you.”

  “For you, it’s better this than what else I could be smoking. Besides, you get used to it.” He exhaled a long trail of smoke and Adriel glared at him between coughs. “So, tell me, my dear. Why did you come with us and not your friends? Surely they would have made better company than a crotchety old man.”

  “I’m beginning to regret my decision,” she coughed again. “But I did what I felt was right.”

  “What is right, then?”

  Adriel pursed her lips. “Protecting the people. That’s all this has ever been about for me. I’m tired of soldiers fighting their battles while innocent people lose their lives. I want to finally do right by the people I vowed to protect.”

  Jiran smirked. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  The two descended a small hill. The cart jerked in the loose rock and Adriel helped him steady it. Shara’s head tapped against the cart’s wicker wall, but she didn’t wake. Jiran turned to Adriel. “You want to do what’s right? Well, so do all of us here. Forget soldiers and kings and countries. We’re fighting for the freedom of our people.”