They came to a fountain. Two Acedens swaddled in thick wool cloaks huddled together on the steps, swords propped in their laps as they chatted. Adriel’s Vilant slinked forward and pounced on the men.
The mist rising from their mouths puffed away. The Vilant dragged them down the stairs and into an alley before rejoining Adriel. She waved a silent command and her Vilant disappeared into the nearby houses.
Adriel spotted Jiran at the end of the road, leading a large group around the bend and into the market. He paused and turned to her, grinning at her through his pipe smoke.
Always with that damn pipe. She wondered how one man could possibly smoke so much. Or even where he managed to get all that tobacco in the first place.
She shook her head of idle thoughts. Now, she just needed to—
A scream echoed, high and shrill. Moments later, a horn blew, and the clash of steel sounded in the night.
Ahead, a man stumbled out of a home, tugging on his mail. He scrambled away at the sight of her, shouting for help. Adriel cursed and ran after him but paused in the doorway of the house he’d just left. A Vilant sprawled lifeless in the kitchen, her throat slashed open.
Adriel made after the Aceden, but more and more men appeared from the houses around her, donning their black armor and brandishing their weapons. She ducked into an alley.
If it weren’t for the sliver of moonlight she never would have seen the sword. She leapt away, strands of her hair floating by as they were sheared by the cut.
An Aceden dove at her and swung again. This time Adriel blocked, but the heavy blow sent her staggering back. She gathered her footing to deflect a second strike and slid her weapon away to cut at the man’s gut. Her blade kicked off his plate and he answered with an upswing.
Adriel blocked this, each blow sending shocks up her arm. She ducked under a swing and tried to stab, but the narrow quarters allowed the man to easily sidestep and grab her. He clutched her by the throat, crushing the air from her windpipe before slamming her against the side of a building.
He thrust his sword up at her. A crunch split the quiet as she drove her blade up under his breastplate. He groaned as she twisted the sword in his gut, and he dropped over her, pinning her against the wall.
She shoved the dying man aside, his warm blood slick on her thighs. Then she noticed the pain, a shooting agony in her hip. She looked down to see blood trickling through her leggings. She sighed and clenched her teeth, leaning back against the wall.
Thud. She turned to see a man bounce off the wall beside her. The Aceden fumbled for his sword but an axe took him in the throat. He gurgled and died. Shara kicked the body for good measure and smiled down at Adriel.
“The fearless Warrior, taking a nap while we do all the real work, I see.” Shara limped toward her, but her smile fell as she saw the blood. “That’s not so bad. We have people who can patch you up in no time.” She helped Adriel to her feet and the two of them hobbled out of the alleyway.
“That’s the last of them,” Shara breathed. “It’s over.”
Indeed, the town was quiet again.
“Now, let’s do what we came here to do.” The two women stepped over the bodies and joined their Vilant as they all marched down the main road, cheering in victory. “Our scouts reported that there were hundreds of tents here, same as Caethiwed. If they sent our people anywhere, this is where they’d be.”
The road soon came to a palisade wall and a single open gate. Vilant crowded around her, eyes wide in horror. On the other side, blackness, a dark swath of earth where evergreens once towered proud. The remnants of tents dotted the scarred and broken field like seedlings. The reek of waste and sickness hit them even from this distance. Trenches lined the camp, filled with a revolting mix of human waste, viscera, and bones. Fires guttered out here and there and their foul greasy smoke hovered thick.
Adriel’s heart sank. The slaves were gone.
She collapsed beside a pile of ash and sifted her hands through it. Bones clattered to her feet.
Adriel gripped her sword, knuckles white. How could anyone do such a thing to their fellow men? “There should have been hundreds, thousands here. We were so close… where could they have gone?”
Shara wrinkled her nose at the nearby fires. “Perhaps they never left.”
“I refuse to believe that. The Acedens need their slaves for something. They took them somewhere… I will find them.”
“First, we need to find Jiran. He should have been here by now.”
Shara shoved through the crowd and slipped down the main road. Adriel had never seen the other woman scared, or even nervous, but the uncertain way in which she said those last words made Adriel uneasy.
They found him soon enough. He was surrounded by Vilant, so they had to shoulder through the press to reach him. He sat propped against the side of a building, Vilant and Acedens twisted dead around him.
Even in the dark Adriel could see his blood. It was a gruesome mess, wetting his face and chest and gut, spreading out in a puddle beneath him.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jiran coughed. “You too, my girl,” he pulled his hand from his wounds and raised it to Shara. The woman looked down at him, stunned. “Go. Everyone. Let an old man die in peace.”
The other Vilant bowed their heads and turned away, whispering as they went. Jiran sputtered a cough and a curse. “Did we find our people?”
Shara managed a nod. Adriel spoke, her voice threatening to break. “We found them, yes. They’re all safe.”
He sighed. “Good. Good. Now, my girl, when I am—”
“Don’t you say it,” Shara spat.
“You know as well as I do that my time is done. Look at me.” He sagged back against the wall again, coughing up another trickle of blood. “The son of a bitch fought well, I won’t deny it. He gave me a good death.” He glanced past her to a man sprawled out in the street, his head nearly parted from his shoulders. “But I gave him a better one.”
“We can burn the wound, perhaps a poultice and—”
He shook his head. “Please, let me be.” Shara dipped her head, her auburn hair falling about her face.
Jiran placed a bloodied hand on Adriel’s arm. “I was never one for the dead and their wishes, but now that I will be one of them… Adriel Ivanne, will you lead my Vilant in my stead?”
She blinked in surprise. Shara turned to her, a muddled twist of emotions in her red eyes.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, my dear, but the people need you.”
Adriel took Jiran’s hand. “I will do it.”
“Thank you.” His hand slipped from hers and he nearly collapsed. He groaned as he picked his pipe off the ground, fingers trembling as he loaded it with leaves from his satchel. Hands wet with blood, he tried with little avail to light it with his striker. Adriel took it from him and lit his pipe. Jiran sighed, smoke curling from his weak smile.
“It does no good to shed a tear for me, my dears. We have saved many on this night, but countless more must find their freedom. You have a duty to the people of Tarsha. Save them from this war.”
He turned to the two women. “You both have saved me. Now save the people, and yourselves.”
Shara at last sat down before him and took his hands in hers. She smiled a teary smile at him, and Jiran smiled back.
Adriel wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned to leave. She paused and looked back over her shoulder.
The last of the smoke trailed from the pipe of Jiran Morell.
Ada Arillius stumbled through the trees. He cursed, hand gripped around the broadhead punched deep into his leg. The damned thing ground against bone with every move.
The fools. They thought they could hunt him down like some animal. He was the Black Arrow, Tarsha’s most feared assassin. Mothers whispered his name to strike terror in their children. Soldiers trembled in their boots at the mere mention of his bloody deeds.
Boots crunched in the snow. Ada lurched back, and an arrow whizzed past his
face. He ducked around a tree, nocked a broadhead, and spun around the other side. His arrow took a woman in the throat. She collapsed to the ground, black armor stark against the white. Blood seeped through the snow around her as she spasmed.
An arrow ricocheted off the tree trunk and sprayed bark over him as he loaded another broadhead. He jumped to another tree, an arrow shooting over his shoulder. He dropped to a knee and loosed. His broadhead took the Aceden in an eye.
Another rushed him from behind, sword hissing in the night. Ada rolled aside with yatagans drawn. He hamstrung the man as he came up and rammed his other blade through the back of the Aceden’s skull.
Ada scooped up his bow and rucksack and slid down a slope away from his dying horse and the bodies of a dozen fools. All around him he heard the crunching of boots, the whicker of horses, the whisper of swords being drawn.
Good. He enjoyed a challenge. He’d hoped his escape wouldn’t be boring.
For years he’d harbored regrets, doubts, fears. No more. His conscience was clear for the first time he could remember. For years he fought for a full coin purse. Now, he fought for a full heart.
He knew what he had to do.
Ada Arillius fled into the night with dozens of Acedens at his heels.
From a Spark
The wind cut through the ravine like a knife. Trees clacked and clattered to toss shadows in the dusk. Dead leaves and snow flittered about, wisps of brown and white in an otherwise gray and dead land.
Isroc drew his woolen cloak about himself and fought off a shiver. With his other hand, he flicked his reins and guided his blood roan courser around a bend.
He prided himself on reading the patterns of the wind—to predict coming storms, bad harvests, or ill omens. This wind felt different, wrong. It felt like the cold steel of a sword pressed against the nape of his neck.
“You alright, mate?”
Isroc broke his gaze from the trees and turned to Silas riding at his side. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
Silas shrugged. “It’s bloody cold.” He pulled his hood closer but grumbled as the wind tugged it off again.
“Our summers would probably disappoint you then. But this winter does seem harsher than normal. With the farms and villages razed by the rebellion, and the andreds and arzecs before that, we won’t have a proper harvest. My people are already starving…”
“It’s a good thing we’re marching south then.”
“And perhaps a good thing Adriel stayed behind to keep my people safe.”
A faint rustle stirred in the trees, the brushing of limbs, the whisper of snow. No, a crunch. His hand twitched to the spear at his back.
Half a dozen Eriasans peered over the ravine walls to watch the passing Alliance and West Riders.
Isroc raised a hand and General Moran returned his command down the narrow column. The horses slowed to a stop and the trail of men between them readied their weapons.
“How fares the way ahead?” Isroc called up to the men.
One of the scouts clambered down the rocks and stopped with a salute. “The Knife Pass continues for another two leagues or more, but…” he eyed the long rows of men and horses snaking off into the distance and around the bend.
“Spit it out, man,” Moran growled.
The scout sighed. “There’s a stronghold up ahead. Acedens.”
Isroc gaped. How was that possible? He turned to Silas. “You said the Knife Pass was clear when you were through here last.”
His friend merely shrugged. “Aye, it was.” Isroc bit off a curse as he noticed his men watching him, whispering.
“They are still building,” the scout continued, “the walls aren’t finished in some spots yet, but they have slaves helping them.”
“Did you get a look at their garrison?” Isroc asked.
The scout shook his head. “Couldn’t get close enough, their lookouts were thick about the place; we barely got out unnoticed. One of my men swears he saw a catapult or two though.”
Isroc nodded and the scouts gave an Eriasan salute before slipping off into the trees. How could the Acedens have built the place so quickly? And how had they gone unseen for so long? “Well, this changes things.”
Moran chuckled. “Be thankful for it! Here I was worried we wouldn’t get a chance to bloody our blades!”
Isroc turned to him. Was this man really so blood drunk that he’d lost all reason? “I’m afraid you will not have the chance, general.”
Moran crossed his arms over his saddle horn and leaned toward Isroc, eyes narrowed. “What other choice do we have?”
“We turn around. Make for the Nimithy Valley, from there to the South. It’s a longer route but—”
“We need this fortress! It’s a shell of stone, likely thinly garrisoned. We can take it! They will have food and supplies, which, if you haven’t noticed, we are rather low on. If we turn around, we’ll starve in our boots before we reach Kaanos. No, we must push forward.”
Isroc reined his horse around to face him. What had happened to the general’s strategic mind? Had it really become so clouded? “You’re a general in the Inveiran cavalry. Surely you can see the problem here. We’d smash ourselves against its walls. We have no siege machines.”
The general bristled, his russet hair and beard a seething mass. “You would have us tuck our tails and cower like bitches?” his voice boomed in the ravine. Every soldier down the line shot a nervous glance at the two men. “We must fight! Fight and move forward!”
“No, we—”
“Then you are a yellow-blooded fool, Isroc Braygon! I have followed you for far too long, stood by while you ran this army into the ground. I never should have joined your worthless Alliance.” He drew an arming sword from his belt and shook it overhead. “We will wet these rocks with the blood of Acedens. We will not balk, we will not run. We fight, we fight, we fight!”
At this, the lines tremored with the roars of soldiers, shaking with the beating and drumming of swords on shields.
“We will not fight,” Isroc said, his voice crushed by the shouts of his men.
Moran lowered his sword, and the cheers died out as abruptly as they’d begun. He looked down at the weapon in his hand. “Then you are in my way, Warrior.”
Isroc straightened in his saddle. “As you are in mine.”
The two met each other’s gaze. Silas grabbed Isroc’s shoulder. “Mate, just let him go.”
Isroc cursed and looked to his men. “Everyone who wishes to fight may do so, I will not stop you; we are all free men here. But those who choose to go with me, know that we will face battle soon enough. When the time is right.”
When no one made a sound, Moran gave a laugh. “There is your answer. Your Alliance is done. I intend to die with a sword in my hand. Go and do the same.”
He pushed past the Warriors but Hargus blocked the path, arcing a brow as Moran pointed his sword at him. “Hargus…” Isroc called. The man spat and reined his horse aside. The formations split, and Moran trotted away. His cloak flapped like a battle standard behind him.
The Inveirans followed him, silver banners and silver armor glittering past. A few Eriasans joined their march as well. Some glanced up at Isroc, perhaps regretful, sorrowful, or even thankful, but most kept their gaze steady ahead with grim determination. Alliance soldiers and West Riders made a path for them in the narrow ravine, pressing against the steep wall.
Isroc and Silas sat amongst the three hundred remaining Alliance and West riders, watching Moran’s army march into the Knife Pass and certain doom. “What now?” Silas asked, voicing the question that no one wanted to ask.
Isroc reined his courser around to look over the hundreds of anxious faces. “We run.”
Cain scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair and stared ahead again. He knew he’d not been staring, not until now. Well, at least not for long. He looked over his shoulder to Mithaniel stretched lazily over a rock. The man watched his gyrfalcon circle overhead, bouncing a foot that sent his chains ji
ngling.
“Make a decision yet?”
Cain grimaced. “We haven’t been here that long.”
Mithaniel sat up with a grunt. “It’s been two hours. You’re lucky a battalion of Acedens isn’t at our heels.”
Cain scanned the hills behind them. Brown, dead scabs on brown, dead earth. Splintered and fragmented trees decorated the dark pits and ravines. Even the sky hung bloated and lifeless. He knew better than to think there would be any life in this place, but still he spared another glance. “It’s not Acedens I’m worried about.”
Mithaniel gave a smirk. “The great Cain Taran, afraid?” Cain scowled at him, and the Iscara threw up his hands in mock innocence. The Iscara pulled his arms apart and sighed as the chains straightened. “How long?”
“Until you’ve proven your worth.”
“Why not just ask me your questions now? Why wait?”
“How can I be sure you’ll answer me correctly? You’ll need to earn my trust before I free you.”
Mithaniel sighed again, waving the chains before him. “I can break these anytime. As if they were twine.”
Cain nodded. “And then I would kill you.”
Mithaniel smiled and leaned back against the rock.
Cain gazed out before them. The Amon Karash.
If the land behind them was dead, then the land before them was death. Pitch dark and ashen, the hills and ravines were barely visible in the growing dusk. Ridges jutted up like the serrated edges of knives, ripping and sawing to gouge great ravines into the barren earth.
“So,” Mithaniel said from behind, “what will it be? Do you want to be arzec food or crow food?”
Cain stepped forward and unbound Mithaniel’s chain from the rock. He gave a tug on the links, and together, the two crossed into the Amon Karash.
The darkness clung to them like a moonless night, a night that seeped from every seam in the earth. Cain blinked into the blackness. It was nearing night, true, but it hadn’t been this dark a moment ago. How was that possible? He looked up at the thick clouds pressed together like slabs of stone to block out any trace of light. And the cold. It had somehow grown colder despite the already frigid winter air. It felt as if he’d been plucked from the snow and plunged into freezing water.
The Shadow of War Page 17