The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  Cain shuffled along to feel his path, barely able to see the boulders that pressed about them. His boots scraped sharp rock and the occasional shrub or creeper vine. Was it getting darker?

  “This place isn’t natural.” He could almost feel the night creeping around him, a weight over him head-to-toe like a filth.

  “I wouldn’t think it so,” Mithaniel replied from somewhere behind him. “Nothing about the Amon Karash is natural. Perhaps once, but certainly not now.” Cain thought he almost heard a nervous twinge in the man’s usually steely voice.

  “We need light,” Mithaniel said after a few moments of stumbling through some boulders.

  “You’re an Iscara. Make some.”

  A snort of derision answered from the dark. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just make something appear.”

  “Your friends can hurl fire. You’re telling me that doesn’t just happen?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We can create something from nothing no more than you can. But as the potter fashions his wares from clay, we fashion flame from sparks.”

  “So, you need a spark to make fire?” Mithaniel clapped, chains clinking. “You know what I mean,” Cain grumbled.

  “Yes,” the Iscara chuckled. “We need a spark, or a source, anyway. We often carry a spark in our palm and incubate it for the right moment. So, I need a spark if we’re to have a light source.”

  “What use are you to me, then? Or am I just going to have to drag your useless weight around forever?”

  Mithaniel’s white head bobbed into view as he stepped toward Cain. “I will walk ahead. It would be a shame if you were to break your neck.”

  He strode past and the chain pulled taught, tugging Cain to the right. He opened his mouth to say something but the sight of a crevice in the path just beyond shut it for him. He turned and followed Mithaniel around the foot of a hill and deeper into the heart of Amon Karash.

  Sweat stung Isroc’s eyes and ran down his face in rivulets. Drops gathered salty at his lips. His hair clung like a mop to his scalp and neck. Yet he continued, determination, hopelessness, and fear driving him onward.

  They ran through the night, over rough hills and through thick bands of evergreens. How long had they been running? Isroc blinked the sweat from his eyes. The purple light of dawn seeped through the trees. Isroc had ordered every man to abandon their mounts—the horses wouldn’t be able to maneuver quickly through the rocky hills and ravines, and he refused to give himself and his West Riders an advantage over his foot soldiers. They’d go as fast as their slowest man. And that meant they’d run all night.

  Silas half jogged, half fell up beside Isroc. “Mate,” he panted, his face slick with sweat. “We have to stop. The men can’t go much further.”

  Isroc gathered enough strength to sputter, “We have to keep going.” Silas’ face seemed to pale even more, but he tightened the grip on his weapon and continued his jog.

  Isroc looked over his shoulder to the last of his army, every face bright red and shining with sweat, every man puffing for air. They ran without complaint or slacking, but the dullness of exhaustion glazed every eye.

  Acedens. There, in the pale dawn’s light. They appeared like shadows, growing and stretching into the distance. They came from all sides, slipping through the trees to flank them.

  Isroc cursed as the enemy neared, some on horseback directing the hunt. They were everywhere. Black armor and sweaty faces. Bare swords and bows.

  Arrows spit from the trees to drop screaming men. Men and bodies tousled together in their desperate flight. Isroc cried an order and his troops managed to bring their shields up in time to block a second volley.

  “Keep moving! We have to get to higher ground!”

  Isroc jumped a span of rocks and landed heavily, the breath knocked from his lungs. Keep moving. He had to keep moving. Arrows whizzed about him.

  His men crested a hill, terror giving them a brief spurt of strength. To the next hill, to the next valley, to the next stream, to the next hill. They had to keep moving.

  The Acedens pursued like hounds on the hunt, just close enough to keep them running but far enough away to avoid meeting swords. What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they just finish it? Isroc stumbled onto the top of a hill, his men dying to arrows around him. A moment of clarity pushed through his exhaustion. They were waiting, like a viper that had struck its prey and now followed it to its death.

  No more. Isroc refused to die in some dark corner; he was going to go out on his own terms. He cried a command and his soldiers skidded to a stop and formed a shield wall atop the hill. The small band of broken, spent men faced into the eyes of their ruin.

  The enemy appeared on the edges of the hill, a black line that grew and grew to surround them. Hundreds and hundreds of bloodthirsty, grinning Acedens. Isroc glanced over his shoulder to his sweaty, weary men, their shields shaking in their hands. Only then did he feel his own fear.

  The spear slipped through his fingers and clattered in the rocky dirt. He knuckled at his eyes to wipe away the sweat. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t ask his men to do the same; they’d all die here if they tried. But he could at least give them a chance.

  He raised his hands in surrender. They felt like lead-wrapped stones, the heaviest weights he’d ever borne. His men dropped their weapons and lifted their arms to surrender.

  A black destrier split the line of Acedens and trotted across the hilltop. An Iscara sat its saddle, his blood red armor shining in the morning sun. He fished in a saddlebag and tossed something toward Isroc. Moran’s head rolled to a stop against his boots.

  “Your friend was quite the fool. Brave, but stupid. I am Barachiel, faithful servant of our Lord Iscarius.” He spoke with a rumbling voice, a voice for the battlefield. “You though, you gave us quit the hunt. I almost didn’t waste the time chasing after you, but after the description my scouts gave of you, well… I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of taking two Warriors.” His lips curled into a sick smile.

  “Take me then,” Isroc managed to pant. “I only ask that you spare my men.”

  The Iscara leaned forward in his saddle. He watched Isroc for a moment with his bright, almost glowing eyes. “I do not need you alive. Any of you. My orders were clear.” He bounced his elegant spear in a hand as he thought. “But, you may prove useful yet. Taran will surely come to me if I have two of his friends.”

  Silas opened his mouth but a sharp glance from Isroc cut him short. The red-armored Iscara gave a gesture and his Acedens stepped forward to collect every man’s weapons.

  Isroc yanked his messer from its sheath and the knife at his belt. Silas fingered Sitare, every Aceden eyeing him as they reached for their blades. Isroc gave a weary shake of his head and Silas cursed before casting down his weapon. A group of Acedens then forced the two Warriors to their knees.

  Isroc looked back at his kneeling army. He spotted Hargus, a single tear dropping from the man’s chin. “We gave ourselves to you peacefully. Now, let them go.”

  “You are hardly in a position to bargain with me, Warrior. I said I needed you two. Not them.” Barachiel flicked a hand.

  Heads tumbled before Isroc could scream. More swings, and more heads followed.

  Isroc collapsed, sobbing into the bloodied dirt as heads rolled around him. He screamed into the quiet, the West Riders and Alliance a gory heap on the sunlit hilltop.

  Cradoc gasped for air as he clutched for his throat. No matter how hard he fought, no matter how hard he kicked and clawed, his breath escaped him.

  The rope around his neck loosened and he dropped to the stone, sucking in great gulps of air as he scratched at the hemp windings.

  The rope gave a sharp twitch and he blinked the blood from his eyes to see the Aceden grinning down at him. “It’s no fun if you give up already.” The others around him howled with laughter.

  Cradoc moaned as the Aceden gave the rope another jerk, grinding his ribs like meal in a millstone. “You… yo
u will…”

  The man waved a hand to his fellows. “Hold, boys, I think our great king is trying to say something!”

  “You will not win.” This set off a new bout of laughter as the rope tightened and dragged him through the crowd. The men kicked and punched and spat, cackling as he scraped across the rough bricks. Blood trailed behind him.

  The Acedens followed him in a procession of sorts, wearing his clothes and the armor of his Honor Guard. One man among them wore the crown of Meres on his bloodied brow. He made a mock ceremony of it, waving his saber like a scepter and calling out to make way for the king.

  As they passed, Acedens knelt or bowed, then joined the growing throngs as they jeered and beat him. All around them, other Acedens killed at whim, running blades through pleading civilians. Others threw themselves at women.

  The enemy dragged Cradoc through the battle torn streets, through pools of blood and viscera. Eyes of his slain soldiers watched him, accusatory, hating. He’d failed them. He’d failed them all.

  And then he stopped. He choked for air, blood gurgling through broken teeth. He lifted his head to see Arata looking down at him.

  “Arata…” He groaned as the man stared down at him with dead eyes, his head on a spear.

  A kick to his ribs rolled Cradoc to his back. A boot pinned him to the sandstone. “Meres is yours, Admiral Botan,” the crowned Aceden declared, proffering the rope before him.

  Cradoc looked past the boot on his chest to Admiral Botan, standing nearby. Botan cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Cradoc moaned. How had he been so blind, so stupid?

  “Well, you have work to do, admiral.”

  Botan nodded, his eyes flicking to Cradoc as he bowed his great girth. “Of course, right away. If I may ask now, where will we sail?”

  The Aceden smirked. “Markadesh.”

  Botan’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t know—”

  “You’ll receive a map, admiral. Now, take the prisoners with you. We’ll need every one of them for hard labor if we’re to finish our preparations on time.”

  Admiral Botan saluted and spun on his boots. He pushed through the pressing crowd, with a last backward glance at his former king.

  The rope at Cradoc’s neck yanked back and the air hissed from his lips. A jolt of anguish shot down his spine as something lifted him into the air.

  He clutched helplessly for the rope digging into his jugular. He thrashed, skidding along the wall of a tower, rising higher with every pull of the rope. The crowds swarmed beneath him, cheering and cursing.

  “Yshara…” he gasped, calling out a final time for his wife. The rope cinched tighter. Another yank pulled him closer to the tower’s crenels. The rope twisted and faced him out over Menaheim.

  Several buildings still smoldered, and others crumbled in bright flames. Bodies darkened every ruin, every road and alley, floated here and there in the river like flotsam. The broken hulls of ships pierced the Alar’s surface. Black cogs and great transports sailed triumphant in the waters between the other keeps, Aceden banners snapping. The black and red sails of Meresi ships rippled in the distance, chased by a fleet of black. Maybe it wasn’t over yet. Cradoc smiled defiantly, gazing out over the destruction of his country. Maybe he’d done some good here.

  “Kuri…” The rope dug tighter into his flesh. His lungs seared with fire.

  “Takara…” The knot around King Cradoc’s neck slipped and locked tight.

  Lonely Roads

  Adriel sighed. She was in over her head. The stupid man and his stupid pipe!

  She tried to shake away thoughts of Jiran but sighed again. She’d been doing that entirely too much lately.

  It had been three weeks since they’d left Arkon, but she still didn’t feel like their leader. The Vilant had instantly accepted her and followed her every command with dutiful passion. So why did she still not feel like their leader? Did they deserve someone better, someone who’d been with them since the beginning?

  She turned to see Shara stalking alongside her. The woman spared a thin frown. Shara hadn’t said anything about Adriel’s new position, but Adriel could tell it grated on her. A man might have trouble telling if a woman was upset, but it really wasn’t all that hard.

  Shara turned and gestured before them. “If the Acedens had half a brain among their whole army they would have made straight for these roads. The vantage points alone… they could hide their armies in these damned mountains for months and we’d never know.”

  Adriel tried not to look up to the high peaks that washed down around them from pearly skies. The Nimithy Valley was beautiful, true, a daunting pass of tree-covered slopes and fine white roads, but those mountains were so tall. Her stomach gave a flip. She much preferred the green plains of Kaanos or the gentle hills of Charun.

  “We are walking into the wolf’s den,” Shara said, not for the first time.

  “We don’t have a choice. It was either the Nimithy Valley or the Faeran.”

  “The Knife Pass—”

  “These people wouldn’t have survived a journey through the Faeran.” She shuddered at the thought of the nightmarish forest. “I barely did.”

  “They will not survive this road.”

  “Enough.” She fought to keep her voice even. “I don’t have to explain my decisions to you, Shara.”

  The woman watched her with those sandy brown eyes. “No. No, you do not. Commander.”

  Adriel caught herself before she sighed. So, she pursed her lips. Damn it! She couldn’t keep doing that. She had to start acting like a leader, whether she felt like one or not.

  She watched the Vilant marching around her. The young, the old, men and women alike in a thousand uniforms of rags and leathers and rusty armor. Many of them walked with a careless sense of purpose like children at the apron strings of their mother. Was it merely nativity or trust in Adriel that gave them such confidence? Or was it both?

  Adriel wished she could share in their ease; her head had been on a constant swivel since leaving Arkon. She feared they would walk right into the enemy, but for the most part, the roads remained empty. Besides a few caravans that they’d ransacked or a few patrols they’d killed, they’d had an otherwise uneventful march. Too uneventful. They had reached Aurel’s Crown, where Raedan’s Road from the west, Egil’s Road from the east, and Dagne’s Dagger came together as one at the head of Nimithy Valley’s fertile mountains. She expected opposition at the Crown, but only old bricks and stone way posts awaited them.

  Now, they were in the heart of the Valley, where great white-capped mountains upswept into a gray winter sky, where evergreens blanketed every mountain and hill, where streams burbled, and cardinals sang sweetly from green boughs. It was peaceful. Quiet. Untouched by the war beyond.

  Yet, even here that did not last. An hour after leaving the Crown and stepping south down Dagne’s Dagger, they'd come upon their first village—a small huddle of sharply slanted roofs and timber buildings, their doors open to the chill air. Searching the houses had produced nothing; every scrap of food, clothing, and speck of dust cleaned from the village.

  They’d come upon another village soon after, and then another, and then more every day, each much the same as the first. Some villages had high grass and weeds about their homes. Dust settled thick on furniture and soot clung like tar to chimneys. Other villages were little more than ash and broken stone.

  There was only one reason why every home had been destroyed or abandoned. The Acedens.

  So many people… how could she hope to save them all? “Cain would know what to do,” she murmured to herself. “He’s led men for half his life.” She glanced at Shara. Fortunately, the woman hadn’t heard her. “Well, if that wool-headed fool can do it, then so can I.”

  She looked over her shoulder to the hundreds of men and women and children. She didn’t need to look any farther for more motivation. She’d protect them all. No matter the cost.

  Swoosh. The sp
arks swept into the tinder. Cain huddled over the bundle of weeds and rags and gently blew into the faint glow. The light flickered like a tiny firefly before it snuffed out and plunged Cain back into gray gloom.

  “Damn this place!” His voice echoed in the stillness. “I’ve never once had trouble starting a bloody fire. We’ve been here for four days and I still can’t catch a spark!”

  Mithaniel spoke from somewhere. “Why risk a fire? Arzecs are—”

  “I’m well aware arzecs are drawn to heat, thank you. But I don’t want to risk falling into one of those crevices. The arzecs will likely have already sensed us by now, anyways.”

  “Three days.”

  “What?”

  “You said we’ve been here for four days. We’ve only been here for three. With sparks I—”

  “Three days?”

  “Yes, it may be dark here, but the nights are darker still. Now, why won’t you let me help you?”

  Cain glanced at him as he approached. “How do I know you won’t just take a spark and light me up when I’m not looking?”

  Mithaniel grunted. “Believe me, I’m beginning to want that more every day.” Cain cast the brush aside and yanked on Mithaniel’s chains, guiding him through the darkness. “Fine, maybe it’s for the best we don’t have a fire. We might as well paint targets on our backs and loose arrows at each other, save them the trouble.”

  The two stumbled through a knot of twisted, dead shrubbery. They picked through the gloom, moving over and around sharp hills, wayward stones, and lurking fissures. Even at what was probably afternoon, the world clutched to the feeble gray of twilight.

  Cain gazed up at the dense cloud cover. “This place is wrong,” he whispered into the absolute quiet. There were no bird calls, no howling of wolves or the faint chirps of insects. Nor was there water, even a rivulet or stream, at least that they could have seen. It reminded him all too much of the Faeran.