The Shadow of War

by Bryan Gifford

  “Wait, so you think there are more slaves out there? You seem to have done a pretty fair job of rounding them all up.”

  Adriel shook her head. “They wouldn’t capture civilians in every country just to build this wall, there’s not enough of a strategic reason for this place to warrant those kinds of resources. No, Silas, this isn’t it. There’s something else out there, a place where the Acedens are sending our people. I’ll find it.”

  They came to a kind of audience chamber. Bodies covered the Meresi carpet of marbled red and yellow, its plush fibers darkened with blood. Vilant and Aceden bodies lay in jumbled heaps over the tables and chairs.

  Most of the furniture in the room was in splinters. Cracks and holes marred the walls, spilling mason and bits of stone onto the carpet. Black streaked the walls and furnishings.

  A pretty woman in a riding dress approached. “There,” she said, pointing to an archway. She looked ready to retch. Silas and Isroc took a hesitant step after Adriel.

  The room beyond loomed high with vaulted ceilings and spire-like windows. Banners lined this room as well, like some sort of strange collection.

  Mangled bodies covered the floor, blood a sticky mix of wet and dry that squelched in the rugs. Perhaps a hundred or more Vilant lay ravaged and dismembered, entrails and viscera leaving a thick pungent stench.

  Black burn marks scarred the floor and walls, columns shattered and rafters broken. Banners hung shredded or singed, furniture smashed. Deep gouges pitted the granite floor. Many of the bodies were beyond recognizable.

  There, at the far end of the room. A golden lance rising from an equally radiant setting sun. The banner of the West Riders. Faded spots dulled the threads-of-silver; blood was hard to wash out of anything.

  Isroc stumbled over the corpses and yanked the banner from its fixtures. He broke down there in the death and gore, weeping into the silk. The once proud banner of Hallus Braygon’s legendary West Riders was now a tatter of blood and tears.

  Silas left his friend to his grieving; he couldn’t bear to watch, not when it brought up such fresh nightmares. He picked through the mess to Adriel and paused as he saw the body she frowned over. The Iscara lay in a twisted ruin atop a heap of corpses—his scarlet armor hacked and scored, arrows punched through his plate and a dozen deep sword cuts beside.

  “Barachiel,” Silas murmured. The white rose pedals on his breastplate were splattered with blood.

  “You know him then?”

  Silas blinked away the images of the dying. So many innocent men slaughtered. “He’s the Iscara who captured us. I thought I would get more joy out of seeing him dead.”

  Adriel pursed her lips and turned to the few wide-eyed Vilant brave enough to enter the room. “Bury them all. Throw this Iscara to the birds.” She stomped away, leaving the place silent save for the shuddering sobs of Isroc.

  One Right Thing

  The dark was unyielding; it seemed the knife in Mithaniel’s hand would snap against the blackness. Yet, somehow this darkness was different from that of the Amon Karash. Maybe it was because he didn’t have to worry about flesh-eating creatures around every bend. Yes, the place was cold and musty like a tomb, but it felt… familiar. Indeed, he was one of the few people in the world dumb enough to enter the Faeran, let alone as many times as he had.

  Mithaniel picked his way across roots and stones, leading Cain through the chokingly close trees. Crevices wide and small weaved like threads through the black earth. Creeper vines and low hanging branches crisscrossed their path like tripwires. This place had its own dangers indeed, but it wasn’t the Faeran’s physical dangers that made it a place feared by the world.

  He finished splitting the end of a rope and knelt, waving Cain over. The Warrior struck his steel and flint into the rope’s frays and lit the ends with small sparks. Mithaniel cupped a palm over the tiny flame and pulled the sparks from their home. There it was, that familiar warmth in his hand and heart; the sweet touch that was the Forgotten’s awesome power. A soft yellow glow rose from between his fingers and stretched out to illuminate the forest.

  The trees were looming, twisting masses like dancing skeletons in the dark. Thorns long as arms jutted from the sides of their sickly gray trunks, and their leaves—jet black and glossy—rolled like an ink sea overhead. Not a glimmer of starlight escaped their clutches. They almost seemed to shy back from the sudden light, their shadows running away at jagged, odd angles.

  And there were screams. Faint at first, though growing louder with every rustle in the leaves. Horrible, dying screams. The cries of children burning alive.

  “A strange place indeed,” Mithaniel whispered, shaking off their wails.

  “The tales are true. This place nearly broke me last time.”

  Mithaniel watched Cain. Yes, there was a reason people avoided this place. Somehow, the Faeran stirred up memories and brought them to life in all their horror. If half the things he’d heard about Taran were true, then the man had very likely faced his nightmares here. Mithaniel glanced around, waiting for those horrible screams to return. He had his own nightmares to worry about.

  No sane person ever entered this forest. Every day Mithaniel wondered how sane he really was.

  “I can’t really explain what happens,” Cain said, “but the Faeran—”

  “I know this place.” All too well. “I will be careful.”

  “I hope you don’t have anything in your past you regret.”

  Mithaniel grunted and glanced up into the treetops. “You mentioned that you have a plan to get us out of here?” Cain asked.

  “If you can call it that. Back in the Amon Karash, I was hoping to put us out into the Knife Pass, around that Aceden keep; there’s a path of sorts that leads from there to Charun. That’s one of the ways the Acedens communicated and moved undetected, those stupid enough to enter the Faeran, anyway. Nimithy Valley is likely hotly contested at the moment, so this path is probably one of the ways the Acedens are sending their troops and supplies south.”

  “That was probably the path Malecai led us down last time then. Can you find it, Mithaniel?”

  He looked up to the inky canopy again. “Perhaps. It won’t be easy.”

  Mithaniel stepped forward and placed a boot on a thorn to test his weight. Satisfied, he pulled himself up onto another one. He weaved his way up through the spikes with more than a few curses. Eventually, he reached the top and looked down at Cain who now paced the base of the tree.

  No doubt the man thought that Mithaniel could take this opportunity to escape. True, he’d contemplated escaping more than once. That, and of stabbing Cain through the heart and being done with this nonsense.

  Mithaniel had chosen his path. There was no sense looking back and contemplating what could have been.

  He hoisted himself over a final branch and a blast of fresh air hit him in the face. Goosebumps pricked his skin from the sudden cold. The air felt so clean—a welcome change from the stagnant, musty air of the Faeran and Amon Karash.

  And the stars. Millions of tiny pinpricks. They bathed the world in silvery white, battling with the rippling black of the Faeran. Was that the false wind below, the dancing leaves that brought the nightmares?

  He turned his attention back to the task at hand. To the north crouched the black lands of Amon Karash. He thought he saw the peaks of volcanoes in the distance. That would be Heiven Sul.

  They were surprisingly on the right track. Well, near enough anyway. Mithaniel searched the constellations in the sky until he found what he was looking for; Cereste and her bow pointing north.

  He dropped back below the treetops where the cool air immediately sucked away and returned him to the depressing, stale darkness. “Where were you?” Cain snapped as he stepped down onto the rocky ground.

  “I had to get somewhere I could see,” he said, choosing to ignore the obvious bite in his words.

  “What did you find?”

  “That we’re well and truly in the middle of bloody nowh
ere.”

  “So, you can’t find this Aceden path?”

  “I didn’t say that. I should be able to climb the trees and use the sun and the stars as a guide. Cereste’s Bow should help me find the way east until we reach the path. Any other way and we’re stumbling through this shit until our beards are gray.”

  “That may not be very long then. Your hair is already white.”

  Mithaniel snorted and led Cain down a hillside and deeper into the Faeran. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “This will put us right into the enemy’s hands.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  “So, you’re perfectly fine with strolling right into Vanthe’s trap?”

  Cain stopped. “What do you mean?”

  Mithaniel blinked. Did he really not know? “Charun’s king, Vanthe, has allied himself with Iscarius for some time; I don’t know how long. Long enough to raise a considerable force though.”

  “I suspected something like that might happen,” Cain growled, nodding to himself. “Adriel warned me about him. I suppose she’s a better judge of character than I am. I trusted Malecai, after all. I assumed Charun was already in Aceden hands by now but why didn’t you tell me about Vanthe earlier?”

  “I assumed you knew already; the man is a worm. After all, you’re awfully close to his niece.”

  “What does that have to do with any of this?”

  “You just said Adriel warned you about him. Why else are we trying to enter Charun unnoticed?”

  Cain stepped closer. “You know what we’re doing here, Mithaniel.”

  He did, unfortunately. It was without a doubt, the dumbest, most foolhardy thing anyone could possibly do. “You intend to seek out Iscarius and kill him, and you need my help.”

  “And do I have it?”

  The trees rustled once again. Mithaniel shook off those terrible memories. Images of everyone he’d ever killed. Of watching the people he’d kidnapped or the bodies he’d dug up turned to andreds. Of tearing people from their homes and chaining them in slavery. Of the atrocities that he’d witnessed and done nothing about. Children screaming as their home burned down around them.

  The leaves stirred with their false wind. Yes, he’d made his fair share of mistakes and committed more sins than anyone. But he didn’t let those moments define him. If anything, they had guided him to this moment, to this path.

  He would fight Iscarius to his last breath. He’d defend the people he’d once sworn to exterminate. He may not be perfect, he may not be human, but he knew what he was now.

  He was a Warrior.

  The leaves fell still.

  “You have my sword. To the end.”

  Cain must have seen something in his eyes at that moment, for the man smiled. “Mithaniel, I think it’s time I ask you some questions.”

  Weeks! They could have been gone from this place weeks ago. But here they were in enemy land, scratching their heads and letting the Acedens come down around them.

  And here Adriel was, thumbing through a mountain of parchments. She signed each paper with a flowing hand and placed them in a separate pile or made amendments and placed them in another. They were tedious things—ledgers of grain, reports of how many weapons they had and how many their smiths were producing, how many mounts and remounts they had, to how many Vilant and freedmen were with camp fever.

  There were reports on the state of the camps, and most of it wasn’t good. The latrines were practically overflowing, and they couldn’t seem to dig new ones faster than the old ones filled. So, naturally, the whole place smelled like shit. Throw in sickness and lack of proper clothes and shelter, and her people were hardly better off than they were before their rescue.

  On top of everything, she had to deal with the issues that came from such a large war camp. Drinking, gambling, drugs, prostitution. Many of the women she’d rescued decided they’d rather drop their dresses than pick up a sword. Even some of the Vilant had turned to whoring on the side for extra food and supplies. Those not engaging in the debauchery were still sleeping with each other or busying themselves with any number of other… hobbies. They had so much passion and dedication, it felt a waste that she had to deal with so many disciplinary issues. She’d doled out more than her share of punishment. Yet the camps seemed to hang by a string, tens of thousands of people fighting each other to break the final strand.

  A few of the reports weren’t so grim, however. Thousands of freed civilians and soldiers were being brought in from along the wall. The wall was much longer than any of them could have imagined, the farthest groups sent to oust any straggling Acedens said they’d seen the border roads of Meres and those to the west said they had reached the dreaded Faeran. The bloody wall stretched nearly the length of Charun’s border with Erias. That was why she delayed, to ensure every chain along the wall was broken.

  She didn’t have to like it, of course. She had tens of thousands of mouths to feed. The fortress’ larders left them with ample food, and her Vilant brought cartloads of provisions back from their runs along the wall and into other camps, but with so many people—and more pouring in every day—they would need more soon, and fast.

  Her reports had also informed her of many of the freedmen’s desire to join the Vilant. Almost every man, woman, and child they had freed wanted to pick up the blade and fight. Every freed soldier, regardless of if he was from Erias or Charun or Meres, wanted to join their cause. She had divided the thousands of recruits down to individual companies and tasked Shara with their training. Most were beating each other with sticks and staves—Silas and the other smiths were sweating in the forges night and day to meet their quota of swords and axes and arrowheads.

  Adriel frowned at the papers and flipped idly through another stack. She gave a sigh and leaned back against the plush, velvet-lined chair. It was a garish mass of red silk and gilding, but no more atrocious than the rest of her living quarters. A massive four post bed dominated the middle of the room with its fat sheets and cushions of silk. The posts were carved like winding roses and their petals towered up to brush the beams. Gilded candelabras and lampposts dotted the room. Some of the oiled planking shone on the floor, but between the thick, swirling Meresi carpets and the many gilded bookcases, she felt as if she were drowning in a sea of yellow.

  She certainly didn’t ask for all this wretched silk and gold. Sure, she liked the occasional silk shirt and—if she were honest with herself—court dress like any woman, but this much would make anyone gag. Nevertheless, she had let herself be meekly herded into Barachiel’s quarters. “A leader should always have the best,” her Vilant had said as they nudged her down the halls. “What would it look like if our commander slept on the ground and ate tack bread?” More foolish mutterings. She knew there was no use in arguing; she knew how to pick her battles.

  So here she was, rubbing her temples over a pile of reports in a too soft chair in a too gilded room while her Vilant slept in the dirt. Oh well, there was no use fretting over what she couldn’t change. She needed to free the rest of those still enslaved. She needed more recruits. She needed more supplies. Only time would fix her problems, and even then, perhaps not.

  She dipped her quill in her ink pot and scrawled her name across the bottom of a paper from Islan, the Vilant in charge of their prisoners, who wrote that he still hadn’t gleaned much useful information from the Acedens. A few mentioned a place called Markadesh in passing, but they didn’t know anything about it. Why bother mentioning it? Strange. Many of Barachiel’s ledgers and reports noted the place. So many shipments of grain and prisoners. The place had to be truly massive to support such incredible numbers. Where was it? What was it?

  A knock at the door revealed Rion. He peeked his head around the heavy gilt door and frowned into the room.

  The boy never seemed to know where to look. Those big, eager eyes darted about between the rafters, her desk, and the floor. She’d thought the lad was simply impressed with the furnishings—not everyone left their
village, after all. But Rion continued his ogling, a hundred times over after seeing the velvets and gilt. “Commander Ivanne… sorry t-to inter-interrupt,” he stammered, his eyes now affixed on the floor.

  “Out with it, man, what is it?” Her quill lay forgotten atop a sheaf of paper, ink pooling out.

  Rion twitched back as if struck. She didn’t want an assistant. It reminded her too much of her uncle’s army of servants, bowing and scraping at his every whim. Besides, she could pour her own drinks. But the Vilant had insisted. It was all she could do to shoo away a maid. A maid! At least Rion had been at the top of everyone’s recommendations. The boy’s family had died building the wall, of fever and broken bodies. Too young and weedy to pick up a sword, he pleaded to serve as he could. He’d already done his part and then some from what she heard the other freedmen say of him. Strange then that he always scrambled like a sparrow in an eyrie.

  Rion addressed her desk. “Commander, th-there is a disturbance a-at the gate.”

  Finally, something to do! Adriel leapt from her chair and swooped across the room. “Alert the reserve battalions. We may need more swords incase it’s an attack. Quickly!” Rion spun on his heels and scampered back down the hall.

  Adriel took up her bow and bowstring from a gilded corner table and latched her quiver onto her sword belt. Smiling, she nearly capered out the door. Paperwork could wait.

  The pounding of hammers echoed shrill in Silas’ skull. They drummed alongside his thoughts, a cacophony inside his head that left him thoroughly rattled.

  He still saw the heads rolling every time he closed his eyes. He still heard their screams every time he opened them. No, he couldn’t keep thinking about that day. He’d had some nasty thoughts during his weeks of captivity spent in the cold and gloomy dark, and now that he was free, that despair snapped at his heels like an angry dog.

  He refused to dwell on what had happened. And so, Silas busied himself. He pounded away on his work until exhaustion sent him collapsing in a heap every night. He shook off those dark memories and let the beating of his hammer carry his thoughts away.