Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  He had hoped it would not come to this, but now he knew such a hope was futile. One trick left, something he had never used before, had never seen used in the arena. Only a few of the oldest veterans ever mentioned the Dance of Death, and then in lowered, awe-hushed voices.

  Now that the time had come, Caelan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with severance.

  Of course he could still cut the Madrun’s threads of life, but although the barbarian’s sudden collapse would look natural enough considering the amount of blood he’d lost, it would be a poor finish to this battle. It would not gain Caelan his freedom.

  No, he had to give the crowd the ultimate spectacle. Never mind fear. Never mind his own doubts.

  Meanwhile the Madrun still kept pace with him, still circled with him. The Madrun was looking pale from blood loss, but he would fight until he dropped. The stories were true; Madruns did not fear death. Caelan could see nothing in the man’s eyes but the desire to kill.

  Still, it had to be tried.

  Caelan shifted severance, sucking in a sharp breath as pain swept him, and reached out with sevaisin. Weakened now, the Madrun still throbbed with hatred, but Caelan caught glimmers of what churned beneath.

  Withdrawing back to the cold safety of severance, Caelan was able to catch his breath and steady himself in time to meet the Madrun’s next attack. He had his answer now.

  Blades flashing, they fought with a fury and speed nearly equal to when they had begun. Caelan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hang on, forcing himself to ignore the scream in his muscles, to keep going for as long as it took.

  Wait, Caelan kept telling himself. Don’t miss the chance.

  At last it came. He saw the Madrun tilt his blade for the lunge attempt Caelan had been waiting for. Over and over in drills, Orlo had taught Caelan how to meet such an attack. Catch the opponent’s blade with the flat of yours and lift, using the other’s impetus to carry his lunge past its target.

  Instead, Caelan caught the Madrun’s blade and twisted it beneath his. The circular motion of his blade directed the Madrun’s sword point straight into Caelan’s side.

  The Madrun’s eyes flew open wide in astonishment, but Caelan twisted even harder, leveraging the Madrun’s blade with his hilt guard to pull the blade into himself.

  The crowd screamed exactly at the moment it pierced his ribs. He heard himself grunt from the impact, felt the blade invade his body ... so huge, so horrible. It was worse than he could have imagined. He seemed to have lost his breath, and for a moment he thought he would lose severance, which was all that now held him together. He was burning inside from the strain, and yet it all happened in a split second. His own sword arm was still moving, still twisting around the Madrun’s blade, which was now trapped in his body and useless. Disengaging from the Madrun’s blade, Caelan’s sword shifted up to thrust deep into the man’s heart.

  The Madrun released a thin, high-pitched scream that sounded piercing loud in the sudden silence. Arching his back, he toppled slowly backward, sliding off Caelan’s sword. As he fell, his sword pulled from Caelan’s side. The agony of that withdrawal was a thousand times more brutal than the entry.

  With all his strength and will, Caelan braced his legs apart and managed to stay upright.

  The Madrun seemed to fall forever; then his solid body crashed to the sand. Dust puffed up. He lay still, his open, sightless eyes staring into eternity.

  The roaring in Caelan’s ears remained the only sound. He seemed to stand in a place that did not exist at all.

  Once before he had had a vision in the arena, one in which his dead father approached him. Now, feeling death reaching into his body, Caelan was certain Beva would appear before him again. But there was nothing except him and the pain that beat harder and harder. He looked down and saw a crimson river flowing at his feet. If he tried to look in the direction the river was running, he saw only a terrifying blackness as though endless night waited on the other side.

  He must dam the river.

  Bending down, he reached out until he could plunge his hand into that crimson flood. Spreading his fingers wide, he grimaced against the agony and expended his last ounce of strength on the command to stop flowing.

  The rapid rush slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether. Where there had been a river seconds before, there was now only drying sand, marked here and there by steaming puddles.

  Caelan straightened, pulling all the life force back into himself and holding it inside by sheer willpower. He felt as though he might break apart from the effort, and yet he held.

  His vision cleared and he was back in the arena, standing there with a dead opponent at his feet. Cheering roared from the stands. Streamers, flowers, and other gifts rained down, glittering in the sunlight. Caelan swallowed hard and dragged in a thin, unsteady breath, then a deeper one.

  He heard the attendants coming at a run from behind him and forced himself to turn around slowly.

  Although it was almost beyond his strength, he lifted his bloody sword to his master, who was actually standing as though in alarm.

  Caelan’s salute, however, apparently reassured the prince, who waved and resumed his seat.

  By then the attendants had reached Caelan. A boy, wide-eyed and pale, carried Caelan’s blue victory cloak. He stood there, staring up at Caelan, while the men knelt around the dead Madrun.

  The boy’s lips were trembling. “You ... you let him—” His voice broke off, and he could not finish his sentence.

  In silence Caelan took his cloak from the boy’s arms and shook out the folds one-handed. He swirled the garment around his shoulders, hiding the wound in his side and most of the blood. Someone shoved the boy aside and took the sword carefully from Caelan’s hand.

  His fingers ached from having gripped it so hard. Grimly he flexed them, but doing so only reminded him of the cut in his arm. Tucking his arm tight against his side beneath the concealment of the cloak, he hesitated only to gather himself, then strode across the arena, waving as he went.

  He remained the champion, beyond all doubt, beyond all expectations.

  He circled the arena with his head high and his shoulders erect, hiding everything that might mar this moment. The spectators waved back, called out to him, leaned over the walls as though to touch him, threw coins and flowers.

  He felt light-headed and strange, as though he might faint, and yet he knew he would not.

  By the time he completed his victory walk, the stricken faces had cleared. Everyone was laughing and congratulating each other. He saw some counting their wager tokens, making faces or openly gloating, depending on how much they had risked that day.

  The steps leading up to the imperial box looked endless and slightly crooked. But the fire blazing ever hotter in his side gave him strength, and he forced himself up the steps. He would have his freedom today. He had more than earned it. He had more than kept his word.

  To his surprise, the prince left the imperial box and came halfway down to meet him.

  It was an unheard-of honor. Tirhin’s guards—obviously caught unawares—scrambled to follow him, but the prince strode down the steps through the midst of the spectators and met Caelan with a broad smile.

  Behind him, up in the imperial box, Caelan saw the emperor sitting with little expression at all. The high priest Sien stood near the emperor’s chair, watching Kostimon with a small, evil smile.

  The prince smiled and waved to the crowd, accepting the fresh accolades and cheering as though they were for him alone. When he reached Caelan, however, his smile was replaced by a frown of consternation.

  “My dear Giant,” he said, then stopped himself from saying more. Straightening his shoulders, he withdrew into formality, and his smile reappeared—public, practiced, and false. “Well done,” he said, the way he would have praised his best stag hound.

  Rebuffed, Caelan met Tirhin’s eyes, seeking approval, seeking confirmation that he would receive his reward. But the prince’s gaze was unread
able. As he listened to the crowd’s shouts, Tirhin’s smile widened.

  Caelan had no choice but to extend the formalities. With all his strength, Caelan forced himself to speak clearly and without any evidence of his inner strain. “Sir, I bring you this day’s victory.”

  Formal words, demanded by tradition and spoken countless times before. Yet they didn’t begin to say all that he meant or all that he yearned for.

  Let it be true, he prayed in his weary heart. Oh, Gault, in thy mercy, let this man keep his word to me as I have kept mine to him.

  “And I accept this victory, fought on this auspicious day in my name,” the prince said. His baritone voice rang out loudly, carrying across the hushed stands.

  A servant joined him with a silk pillow supporting the victory crown of ivy. As Caelan bowed, the prince set the crown on his head. The leafy vines scratched, as usual.

  “You have served us well, champion,” the prince said. “You have defeated an enemy of the empire, as our armies will defeat the Madruns and drive them far from our borders.”

  Cheering surged up, drowning out his words until the prince lifted his hands. With quiet restored, he continued. “We thank you, champion. We admire your strength, courage, and fighting prowess, shown this day as never before. In appreciation of this magnificent effort, which has more than surpassed my expectations, I wish to give you a special reward.”

  Caelan’s gaze snapped up, and his heart surged. Suddenly his ears were roaring. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. His eyes filled with tears that he struggled manfully to hold back.

  Tirhin smiled, glancing around to be sure the crowd was still watching. “Here is a personal token of my pleasure.”

  As he spoke, he took a heavy gold chain off the pillow. “Wear it with pride, my champion.”

  Caelan stood there, stricken and silent. Disappointment crashed through him, and he felt as though he were falling a very long distance.

  A frown touched the prince’s features momentarily, and he cleared his throat.

  Belatedly, Caelan somehow managed to bow his head, although his neck felt so stiff he thought it might snap. Tirhin slipped the chain around Caelan’s throat, and a smith appeared from the crowd to close the final link.

  Then the prince leaned near and whispered into Caelan’s ear in a voice that was low and furious, “You fool, you weren’t to take a scratch. If you collapse publicly from this stunt, I shall see your soul damned for all eternity.”

  With that, he extended his hand to Caelan, who had to kneel and press Tirhin’s fingertips to his sweaty brow.

  Fresh cheering swelled, but in Caelan’s heart there was only fire and bitter disillusionment. What cruel betrayal was this? His master was a fair man. They had bargained squarely. The prince had given his word ... somehow Caelan choked off the desperate round of thoughts spinning through his brain.

  He climbed to his feet, although the effort made him dizzy, and held on. He was too proud now to show any weakness. Nor would he meet the prince’s gaze again, fearing he would not be able to conceal his fury.

  The prince stepped back and lifted his arms in a cheerful wave to the crowd. He was still smiling. But his eyes were like stones.

  With more waves for the crowd, he walked back up the steps.

  Caelan stood there, stunned. That was it. That was all. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. As he watched his master’s retreating back, Caelan’s temper rose. Of all the ungrateful ...

  An attendant prodded his arm, distracting him from his furious disappointment. Recalling where he was, Caelan executed a very small, very stiff bow to the prince’s retreating back.

  There remained the crowd, chanting his name. Like an endless sea, the faces surrounded him, held back only by the soldiers.

  Caelan battled himself, trying to believe there would be more later. He was a fool to expect the prince to free him on the spot.

  Yet a little voice in his heart whispered, He could have.

  Crossing the arena had never been so difficult. It took an eternity, and despite the crisp winter air Caelan was sweating. He could feel himself weakening with every step, yet he kept his chin high and his shoulders erect, forcing one foot ahead of the next as the guards escorted him to the ramp. Behind him, young boys ran across the arena sand with crimson and blue streamers unfurling from their hands while Tirhin’s slaves threw coins and favors into the crowd as part of the celebration.

  Caelan saluted the crowd one final time before going in.

  One of the guards stopped him. “By your rights, you can circle the arena again. As long as they shout for you, enjoy your victory.”

  Caelan shook his head. His elation was gone. He’d lost the heart for another victory walk. Besides, his knees were growing spongy and he dared not keep up the pretense much longer.

  Even now, he could hear voices in the crowd: “He’s fine. Look at him! You only thought the Madrun stabbed him.”

  And others: “Who knew a Traulander could fight like that? If they’d all take up arms like Giant, they could help the emperor defeat the Madruns once and for all.”

  And someone else: “The prince can pick his fighting men. By the gods, we need a leader like that. I say let him take charge of our army.”

  Fresh bitterness flooded through Caelan, and he descended into the torchlit gloom of the subcaverns.

  Many of the guards left their posts to cluster around him, eager to slap his back and shake his hand.

  “I’ve won a fortune on you today, Giant!” one of them said.

  “By the gods, I’ve never seen such fighting.”

  “You’re a devil, blessed by the dark one, to fight like that.”

  They wanted to talk it over, describing every move in detail as they relived it again and again. Caelan stood with them a moment, longing for Orlo to come and shoo them away. His head was spinning and he didn’t know what he said to anyone. But no one noticed. Finally he brushed past them and went on while they talked and laughed behind him.

  With every step, the new gold chain thumped a little against his collarbone. It was a generous gift indeed, heavy, and of extremely fine workmanship.

  But to Caelan it was still a chain, put on him by a master who would never let him go.

  He felt like he was choking.

  Chapter Three

  At the steps leading down to his ready room, Caelan found his strength suddenly deserting him. He paused and sagged against the smoke-blackened wall, trying to catch his breath. Another cluster of guards and workers waylaid him, all talking at once. Caelan felt everything blurring, and he panicked. He could not fall; he must not fall. Questions came at him from all sides, but he found he did not have to answer. They were all too busy congratulating each other to care whether he spoke or not.

  Then an insolent voice cut across the chatter. “Giant! Ho, there!”

  Blinking hard, Caelan managed to rally. With great care, he turned around to face a lanky man wearing the imperial coat of arms on his sleeve.

  It was Nilot, head trainer of the emperor’s gladiators.

  The others fell silent and stepped back with respectful bows. Many remembered they had work to do and melted away.

  “Quite a spectacle you put on,” Nilot said. His dark eyes raked Caelan up and down. “Frankly, I didn’t think you had so much toughness in you. You’ve never fought this way before.”

  Caelan was burning up. His legs trembled with weakness. He struggled to hold himself together, aware that this man’s eyes were sharp and unfriendly. Nilot had never spoken to him personally before, but his hostility was plain.

  “Who taught you the Dance of Death?” Nilot asked sharply. “That’s an old dueling trick, used only by officers in the Crimson Guard.”

  A sense of danger alerted Caelan. He fought off the gathering mists and forced himself to focus on what the man was saying. Insolence seemed the best defense.

  “And as such, is it sacred?” Caelan asked with open mockery. He knew Nilot was an army veteran,
supposedly much decorated for bravery. “Does a gladiator slave sully this type of swordplay by using it on an enemy of the people?”

  Nilot’s thin mouth tightened to a hard line, but he was not deflected. “There’s not a gladiator alive who would know such a move, or how to execute it properly. Who taught it to you?”

  “I have an excellent trainer.”

  “Orlo?” Nilot snorted. “Excellent for turning third-rate scabs into second-rate fighters. Has your master been giving you special lessons?”

  Caelan saw the trap yawning before him, now when it was too late. Inwardly cursing this man, Caelan sought for a quick answer that would be believed. He found nothing. He could not say the truth, that he had joined with a sword and learned its secrets from all the combats it had known. The secret ways of Trau mysticism were feared here.

  Yet how could he answer in a way that would protect Prince Tirhin?

  “Masters do not have time to teach their slaves the finer secrets of swordplay,” he said as scornfully as possible.

  “Oh, that’s a loyal answer.”

  Caelan’s gaze snapped to Nilot’s. “What would you have me say?”

  “The truth. Did Prince Tirhin teach you that move?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  If insolence would not work, perhaps arrogance would. “Perhaps you did not know that I was born free and of good birth. I have not always worn chains and served the will of others.” Caelan pushed himself forward, praying he would not stagger. “I cannot linger here.”

  Nilot blocked his path. “I am not done with you.”

  “Caelan!” came an angry shout. “What are you doing standing in this cold? Are you mad? Your muscles will stiffen.”

  It was Orlo, coming down the passageway at a furious pace. Caelan had never been so relieved to see the man.

  He glanced at Nilot and shrugged. “I must go.”

  “But—”

  “I must go.”

  Nilot reached across him and gripped Caelan by his injured arm. The pain was like a spear point, impaling him. Caelan sucked in a breath, and felt the world turn gray.