The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  “Surely you know. No?” Malleus smirked. “Iscarius wouldn’t keep secrets from his loyal pet, now would he? This is one of the secret keeps we’ve been building under the enemy’s nose. We have an excess of prisoners, so I figured they could use more workers.” He turned to the slaves above. “Since they’re so bloody slow at doing their damn jobs!”

  “Ah, they sent the slowest man for the job I see!” a voice called from the gateway. An Iscara sauntered forward, his sabatons thudding and red armor creaking. A retinue of Blood Guard—in their customary scarlet plate—marched at his heels. His breastplate glimmered in the setting sun, the emblazoned sigil of a white rose stark in the ruddy dusk. Two other Iscara brought up the rear. The first, Ada didn’t recognize. He thought it might be Ramiel. The second—with her customary frown—was Eritha. She had fought beside Ada and Malleus during the uprising in Val Idris.

  The red-armored Iscara gave a flourish as he stopped before the caravan. “Welcome to the Knife Pass, my friend! I’d ask how the journey went but you clearly must have had your fun sightseeing!”

  “Shut your worm hole you rotten bastard,” Malleus grinned. “It’s good to see you, Barachiel.”

  Ada sidled closer to Eritha as the other two continued their conversation. “You’re a long way from Inveira.”

  “As are you,” Eritha replied, silver eyes locked forward.

  “What brings you this far south?”

  “Look around you, assassin.” She nodded to the slaves. Something in her voice gave Ada pause. Was that anger or disgust?

  “…I don’t mind!” Barachiel continued, waving a gauntlet at the wall. “I am the new overseer for the South. Our lord Iscarius,” he said, clenching his hands together with a small bow, “long may he reign, wished for me to conduct all of our newest projects in the South.”

  “Now that’s a shame,” Malleus frowned. “Your prowess with a spear should find you on the frontlines, not twiddling your pecker behind these walls.”

  The Iscara nodded, the white plume of his helmet bouncing with every shake. “I have more than enough servant girls to twiddle it for me. But no matter, I am happy to serve Iscarius, though I needed more workers weeks ago. We are far behind schedule.” He examined the caravan behind them with crossed arms. “I need strong men. Nothing less. You can have the rest.”

  Malleus shook his fat, bald head. “No can do, we need men for work as well. Lord Iscarius requires them for other projects. We have no use for the others; they’re just mouths to feed.”

  Barachiel shrugged. “Very well. I am always of a mind to share. We take half and you take half.” He raised a gauntlet. “I want every man to raise his hands!”

  Every man lifted their hands, chains jostling. Acedens unlocked the able-bodied from the main guide chains and pulled them by the hundreds from the caravan away from their crying families and friends. Malleus’ troops herded the remaining men off to the side.

  Soon, only women, the elderly, and children remained huddled in the road.

  Ada scanned the fearful eyes until he noticed the elderly, hunchbacked man clutching onto his wife. His wiry white hair shook with fright, but his hands were steady as he comforted his love.

  “Bows at the ready!” Malleus ordered. Every Aceden raised their longbow and nocked their arrows. Ada turned to him, stunned. “Draw!” The Acedens pulled back their broadheads and aimed down their shafts at the helpless, screaming crowd. “Loose!”

  The arrows fell, and bodies collapsed in the bloody bricks. The Acedens nocked again as the survivors cowered together, their wails echoing in the trees.

  Malleus turned to Ada. “Loose an arrow, assassin, lest we forget which side you’re on.” Ada wrapped his fingers around the familiar wood of his recurve and pulled a broadhead to his cheek. He steadied his hands and aimed down the black arrow at the crowd of women and children.

  The elderly man knelt by the body of his wife, cursing the Acedens with tears streaming down his face.

  “Loose!” Malleus screamed. A final volley finished the deed.

  Bodies of families and friends and the young and the old littered the valley floor. Blood of the innocent trickled through the seams in the bricks.

  Malleus nodded to his men. “Good work, boys. Retrieve your packs and move those bodies to that ravine over there, we don’t want them stinking up the place.”

  Malleus and Barachiel turned and made for the keep with their remaining prisoners. Eritha paused, her eyes meeting Ada’s. She nodded, then returned to the open doors.

  Ada looked out over the carnage to the hunchbacked old man and his wife, still hand in hand, a black broadhead gleaming from the man’s heart.

  The road was named a road in kindness. Centuries ago it had been something, a grand band of gold spanning the four corners of Meres—a vast network for silks, metals, pottery, fruits, and once even flesh and chains. Now, however, the road was a ruin, a broken shamble of yellow brick, mangled pillars, and waterways.

  By the time Cradoc reached the roads, he’d lost half of his baggage train. The garrons and mules had long succumbed to the heat, and even their camels were beginning to show signs of exhaustion. The few sand striders to escape with the Palace Guards were put to pulling the abandoned wains and wagons, but most of them had already died. They butchered the mules and prized stallions alike. They left a trail of wagons in their wake and carried what provisions they could, few as they were.

  The wounded failed amongst the sands long before they touched the golden roads. The sick followed. Sickness lingered to ravage the precious few survivors.

  They made quicker progress now that they stopped burying their dead. The roads were straight paths through the hills, providing a straight shot to their destination. Fortunately, they still had small rations of food left, but their water stores were all but exhausted. Out here in the blistering sun and sweltering sands, they’d all be dead in days.

  But the road was at an end. The suffering was at an end. The dying was finally over. Across the expanse of stony hills, the fortress of Menaheim awaited.

  It loomed like a grand jewel in the dull sands, the brilliant sapphire of the Alar an oasis in the madness. Menaheim hunkered in the widest section of the river, where a dozen war galleys could sail proudly abreast and still not scrape the banks. While some ancient fortresses had moats, this one had a river, and while some fortresses were but one, this one was five.

  Each of Menaheim’s five keeps capped rocky islands of varying sizes and shapes. The islands formed a kind of splintered ring, with bridges of crumbling wood and stone connecting them like webs. The place was old, built and rebuilt countless times as apparent by its may hued bricks of gray and red and brown.

  Cradoc’s smile faded as he noticed the burn marks on the main keep’s walls. The fresh oak planks of the gate contrasted with the black bricks. Half the keep seemed to have been razed, rubble strewn throughout the stables and barracks.

  Cradoc gripped his limp arm. Fire. Had the Aceden’s razed the place, had they taken it for themselves? No, he sighed with relief as he saw the fleet of black Meresi ships, their red sails and eagle banners flapping in the wind.

  Dust trailed across the hills as a retinue of mounted soldiers approached from the fortress. They reined their striders to a stop before Cradoc and his Palace Guards.

  “My king,” one of the soldiers in gray and scarlet scales saluted. The blood red plume of his half helm declared his captain’s rank. “We feared for your person. Thank Sudachan you’re safe!”

  “I thank you, soldier. I’m alright.” He didn’t feel it though. His head pounded like a smith’s hammer and he felt like leather stretched out to dry. Cradoc could feel his skull through his skin and the rest of him hung like rags from his bones. He was thankful his silks and linens concealed that; he had enough people fretting over him.

  The captain twisted his leathery face into a frown. “The journey must have been a dreadful one. You are weary, I am sure. We will have the cooks prepare food an
d drink and have a bath drawn for you as well.”

  Cradoc looked to the pitiful remains of the people who had followed him from Izadon. They were practically ghosts, fleshless, shambling wastes with death in their eyes. Barely a quarter of them had survived the trek. “See to it that our people are tended to. They have suffered much and more.”

  “Where shall we keep them, my king?” asked another of the soldiers, a young, scrawny boy with a wisp of hair over his upper lip.

  Another soldier reined forward and cast a glare at the young man. The man wore the scales of a regular Meresi footman, but his skin was much too light to be a Meresi, wasn’t it? Maybe the sharp orange of the setting sun was playing tricks on his tired eyes. The soldier bowed curtly. “Forgive the boy. He’s just happy to see his king.”

  Cradoc nodded slowly. The man clearly tried, but he couldn’t imitate the song of a Meresi accent. Perhaps he was just being overly paranoid. Not everyone who lived in Meres where Meresi, after all. “Find accommodations, soldier. We will not be here long, and we’ll take them with us if they wish to come.”

  The captain nodded, sparing a glance at the light-skinned soldier. “It shall be done as you say. Let us come, my king. Please, take my stallion. Your Guards may take our other striders as well.”

  “I fear my riding legs have not had the strength of their youth for some time.” That was a half-truth. His leg had never fully healed from a spear thrust in the arzec razing of Izadon. Walking a few hundred leagues did not do much to help the healing but it had been better than the constant jostle of a saddle. He would not ride among his armies a fool; he could walk well enough. “Lend your horses to my people and let them cross the last leg of their journey with some dignity.”

  The soldiers did as he commanded and escorted him and his people down the remnants of the golden road to the banks of the Alar. They crossed over reeds and pebbles and stepped onto the ancient red brick bridge, a narrow path that forced them to walk three across.

  The southernmost bridge was the most whole, perhaps due in part to its distance from Andred’s riverbank. Nonetheless, it was broken here and there, patched with different bricks, cracked and crumbling.

  The first keep’s portcullis was already drawn up and its gates of new wood beckoned them inside. They entered a small stone courtyard where soldiers and civilians watched them from the few still-standing buildings. A few cheered the arrival of their king, but most kept their eyes down at their feet.

  “If my King would follow me,” the captain beckoned. “We’ll take you to your chambers.”

  Cradoc looked around the court to the crowded buildings and walkways of tents and rags. Women and children huddled together in the dirt, watching him with haunted eyes. “Give the room to the sickest among us. Tend to my people, see that they are well fed and watered and their wounds dressed. Send them to the innermost keep, those who are strong and wish to do so may assist in repairs and other duties deemed necessary.”

  The captain opened his mouth to reply but glanced back at the light-skinned soldier. He bowed and led Cradoc and his Guards down the brick road to a large keep.

  “I beg your pardon, my King,” the captain began as they stepped through the keep’s gateway. “The innermost keep is bursting at the mortar. The sickness has already claimed three score soldiers and a dozen civilians from within their walls. It’s spreading quickly.”

  Cradoc frowned. “Then find another place for the newcomers. Move soldiers if you need to. I must speak with Admiral Botan.”

  They exited the far side of the keep and followed a walled switchback that snaked down the side of the island. They crossed a bridge over the river to a second, smaller island.

  The keep here was a square of earth and stone with square bricks and square towers, shaking beneath the marching boots of soldiers. His troops gathered here in formation to salute their king, the commands of captains echoing in the wide-open court.

  “They come to see that their king lives,” Arata spoke from his side.

  Cradoc nodded and glanced about the crowds of whispering onlookers. He adjusted his crown, rubbing the blisters new and old.

  “Where is Admiral Botan?” Cradoc asked a nearby captain.

  The man snapped to attention and led them through the keep to a stone bridge connecting the third, innermost island. They paused here as a retinue of soldiers rode across the bridge toward them.

  The leader patted his strider and dismounted, kneeling in the bricks.

  “My King, Meres rejoices. There will be song in every heart and dance in every village at the news of your return to us.”

  “There will only be the sharpening of swords, Admiral Botan. Izadon has fallen and I bring too few of her children.”

  The man bobbed his head as he stood. Cradoc couldn’t shake the image of a rain fruit every time he saw the man, round and colorful. The admiral always wore robes of rich silk like a merchant, blues and reds and purples smashed together in a garish display. Next to the other men in their scales and leathers, he seemed pointedly out of place. Despite this, the man was a tactical genius, one of the greatest commanders in Meres’ long history. He had led the victory at Calbraith, after all, the closest any army had ever come to invading Andred since Ivandar. Still, it wouldn’t hurt him to look a little more… professional.

  “We feared as much, my king. When we stopped receiving your messengers we feared that the Acedens may have intervened.”

  “Have you heard any news from the rest of Tarsha? Any word from King Ethebriel?”

  Botan crossed his huge arms over his chest. “Only whispers. Our scouts have brought back scores of wandering men and women and children who have sought Meres as a refuge. They had nothing good to say of the goings-on beyond our borders. I have heard nothing from Kaanos’ leadership.”

  “You have done well in your preparations here, Admiral Botan. Come, let us speak privately.” Botan made a motion to the other soldiers and they made for their horses. “We will not walk far enough for you to need your horse I assure you, I have walked enough these last weeks.”

  They began down the long bridge to Menaheim’s innermost keep, the Palace Guards at their heels. Botan opened his mouth as they reached the gateway, but paused, letting Cradoc lead him into the entrance court.

  Red and brown Meresi tents covered the keep like scabs. They clung to every brick and stone, every road and alley, even stairs and wall walks. A thin film covered much of the roads, something that appeared to be a mix of vomit and blood and waste. The road was thick with soldiers, men pressed together nearly shoulder to shoulder. Thousands of soldiers filled the walls, but for every fighting man, there was a coughing child or weeping woman. Half the population of Meres seemed to have been stuffed inside Menaheim.

  Cradoc looked over his people, fighting the urge to pinch his nose. “This is madness. If the other keeps are in even half this state, then sickness will surely take us faster than the Acedens.”

  Botan cast his eyes to the ground. “I did not have a choice, my king. I couldn’t turn them away. It is well known that the heart’s keep is the largest and most secure of the five, protected from every side. First, it was my men. When the food stocks went low they came begging of me. Then, when news of the Aceden rebellion came, they panicked. They pressed through our gates with a madness.

  “Then came the civilians. At first it was just our people seeking sanctuary. Then came Eriasans and Charunites. I let my men open the gates, but now I fear I may have doomed our cause. I have too few mouths who can bite and too many who can only eat.”

  Cradoc scanned the sea of heads. Ever since he’d left Morven he’d had this moment planned down to the finest details. He had his armies in position, his ships waiting to head for Kaanos, but he hadn’t accounted for thousands of added passengers, sick and wounded and dying at that.

  He turned to Botan. “We continue as planned.”

  The Admiral raised a brow. There was that anger Cradoc remembered in him, forcefully bottled
away under a cork of halfhearted professionalism. “We still make sail for Kaanos then? What of all these civilians?”

  “They are still our people, now more than ever. They need us as much as we need them. Send for every ship in our fleet to sail for Kaanos.”

  “But my king, if I may be so bold in saying that we will be giving ourselves to the enemy. We are the greatest fleet in Tarsha. Do you truly mean to take our strength away and deliver it to Kaanos?”

  “I am keenly aware we are in the middle of an invasion, Admiral Botan. I am also aware that we must win this war.” Cradoc didn’t need to say more. He looked out over the crowds again. They’d lost their homes, their families. They wouldn’t care if he sacrificed Meres for their survival.

  “The men will look ill on this,” Botan warned, “abandoning their country in her greatest hour of peril to aid Kaanos in hers. They are already—”

  “I know what they whisper. By men, do you mean yourself?” Cradoc glanced at the man. “Speak plainly if you doubt me, admiral.” Botan grunted and pushed through the crowds.

  “Shall I fetch him for you, my King?” Arata asked from behind. “Perhaps his head?” He rubbed his thumb along the haft of his glaive.

  “That will not be necessary.” He gripped his maimed arm and stepped up to his Guard Captain, the man who had been at his side for so many years. “We set sail for Kaanos at the turn of the moon, with or without the rest of our fleet.”

  Arata nodded. “What shall we do until then, my King?”

  “Hope. Hope that we have that kind of time.” Cradoc sighed and spared a gaze for the tightly bottled chaos around him. “And hope that I am doing the right thing.”

  A Gift of Light

  Isroc crested the mountain. The evening sun sank beneath the western peaks, bringing an early darkness over Seraphel.

  His legs practically screamed at him. His entire body felt afire, like a thousand tiny needles jabbed his every nerve. He inhaled a cold breath of air and straightened; Isroc’s men couldn’t see their leader weak, never mind that he had graying hair and creaking bones.