Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  The torturer grinned. “Man speak some now. Man scream high!”

  The beating commenced expertly, each blow landing on vulnerable flesh in an overlapping pattern of agony that only intensified. It was like a scourging, yet the wide strap inflicted a different kind of pain than a narrow whip did. After a few moments when Caelan felt himself begin to waver badly, he severed himself from the pain and endured it, detached in the cold void of elsewhere, and always waiting for a chance, however slim, to retaliate.

  He had confessed hours ago, spilling all that he knew. But he had spoken too soon and too eagerly. The torturer had not believed him and was demanding another confession.

  Caelan had nothing left to say. Gritting his teeth, he shut his eyes and tried to endure.

  “Stop!”

  The voice cried out the command loudly enough to silence the wails of the prisoners. The clatter and racket ceased as the jailers stopped their tasks and looked around. The torturer lowered his strap and turned sullenly, standing almost at attention.

  Through the sudden silence, there came only the faint constant sound of dripping water and the soft moans of the man on the rack.

  Swinging in place, Caelan struggled to turn his head so that he could see the visitor.

  Through the smoke and gloom he glimpsed a figure in a soldier’s breastplate, feet spread apart, head high with arrogance.

  “Who is in charge here?”

  The soldier’s voice rang out strongly, sternly. It was a voice of command, and it sent jailers and turnkeys scurrying into a motley line as though for inspection.

  A burly man, broad-shouldered, running to fat, shuffled forward. “I’m the head jailer,” he said.

  “Clear this room.”

  “What, of all—”

  “Clear the room!” the soldier barked. “Immediately!”

  Grumbling, the jailer turned around and gestured. His minions set to work unbuckling the unconscious man from the rack. The woman in the cage was lowered and dragged forth. She couldn’t walk, and the men half dragged her, half carried her out of sight.

  In the distance came the screeching of rusty metal as the grate of one of the holes was opened. Caelan heard the woman scream; then the sound was brutally silenced. The other prisoners resumed their wailing, crying out for mercy, pleading their innocence.

  The torturer brought a stool and stood on it to reach the hook Caelan was swinging from. He fished out a key to unlock Caelan’s shackles, and Caelan tensed himself in readiness. With even one hand free, he could attack.

  “Not that one!” the soldier said, striding over. He paused before Caelan and looked him up and down. “Is this the Traulander? Prince Tirhin’s property?”

  “Is,” the torturer admitted. He half turned away from the soldier and drew up a dirty hood over his head. “Not hurt.”

  “Leave him where he is.” The soldier looked around, his face drawn with disgust. “Very well. All of you, clear out!”

  The torturer glared at Caelan but went, along with the jailer and the others.

  Caelan swung alone in front of the soldier, bruised and battered, his skin on fire, his shoulders bursting with agony. Even with the aid of severance, he found it hard to focus on anything more than a moment at a time. His wits were wandering. It would be so easy to sink away into unconsciousness, such a relief, but the soldier touched his chest lightly, setting him swinging again, and the resultant pain sent a choked cry slamming to the back of Caelan’s throat. Gray and yellow misery washed through him, and the world was on fire. There was no passing out, no escaping it. Even severance did not contain it.

  A voice spoke in the distance, and the soldier stepped away from Caelan. “He is ready, Majesty.”

  By the time Caelan managed to lift his head again and somehow throttle back his misery, the emperor had come down the steps and crossed the dingy, splattered room. He circled the forge, where the glow of the coals threw a ruddy glow across his face. At last he stopped in front of Caelan.

  The emperor wore a tunic of cloth of gold and a crown on his head. He seemed to blaze in the gloom, and his jewels winked and sparkled at his slightest movement. His yellow eyes gleamed balefully at Caelan, and his face might have been carved from stone.

  “You dared attack my son,” he said in a low, furious voice. “You miserable wretch.”

  Caelan struggled to pull his wits together. By some miracle, he had his audience with the emperor. It was not what he had hoped for, but it would have to do. “Majesty,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak, “I must denounce your son as a traitor and a—”

  “Silence!” the soldier shouted, and struck him.

  The man’s fist slammed into Caelan’s jaw like a battering ram. He spun around on the chain, the pressure sawing through his armpits, and felt his consciousness dribbling away.

  “Get back, Captain,” the emperor said as though from far away. “I do not require your assistance.”

  A murmured apology, and retreating footsteps.

  Then a hand gripped Caelan’s hair and jerked up his head. “Talk to me, you overgrown brute,” the emperor muttered. “But take care. I have risked enough, giving you this chance to defend yourself when by rights your entrails should have already been fed to the gulls. Talk!”

  Caelan tried, but his brain felt as though it had come loose in his skull. He gasped, struggling for the breath to answer, praying he could pull himself together one last time.

  The emperor shook his head impatiently. It felt as though he might pull Caelan’s hair out by the roots. “Talk, damn you! Is your confession the truth?”

  “Yes,” Caelan whispered thickly. “Traitor ... it’s true. I saw.”

  “What did you see?” the emperor demanded, his voice lower now, still tight with anger and impatience. “Tell me quickly!”

  “Bargain ... Madruns to come ... take city.” Caelan drew in a shaky breath, knowing he needed to be more articulate. He tried harder. “Sien and the prince ... secret meeting on Sidraigh-hal... met with Madruns. Prince wants throne. Resents the—the lady empress.” His mind stumbled and failed him for a moment. Then it came back. He frowned. “Prince plotted against you. Made alliance. Gave them ... gave them ...”

  To his frustration his strength petered out, and he could not finish. Panting, he hung there and railed mentally against his own weakness.

  “And you were there?” the emperor said grimly. “You participated in this plot?”

  Caelan rested his cheek against his arm, his eyes half-closed. “No. Followed master. To protect... didn’t know. Watched outside the hut. Heard. Saw him give them the paper.”

  The emperor’s face turned pale. “The passwords?”

  “And forged orders ... strategy ... way through the border. Everything. City in danger. Five days, then they will come.”

  The emperor’s grip shifted to his throat. “When did this occur?”

  “Day before coronation. I tried to warn you. Couldn’t. Only to you could I speak. No way to reach you. Prince hurt.”

  “He will hurt even more,” the emperor said furiously. His eyes were blazing, and he dropped his grip from Caelan’s throat. “You’re a slave. You could say anything. Why should I trust you?”

  Caelan managed to meet his eyes. “You believed me. You came to see me for yourself.”

  The emperor’s mouth quirked in a thin smile before he turned serious again. “I have seen you in the Dance of Death.

  Only men of great courage attempt it. Courage and honor are sometimes found together.” His eyes narrowed. “Then you attacked my son when you found he was a traitor.”

  Caelan shook his head. “No attack,” he said wearily. “Lies.”

  “But the servants witnessed it.”

  “No attack.”

  Disbelief filled the emperor’s face.

  Caelan grew desperate. “Please,” he whispered. “The accusation made by the healer against me is a lie. The servants saw nothing. There was nothing to see. Ask Orlo, my trainer. He will t
ell you the truth.”

  “Why should the servants tell this falsehood, lay accusations against you? My son has been injured. You struck him—”

  “No!” Caelan said vehemently, daring to interrupt. “I swear to you on all my gods that I did not strike the prince. I brought him back from the mountain and sent for my cousin—for the healer Agel to tend him. The prince was attacked by the shyrieas. They hurt him, not I.”

  “None of this makes sense,” the emperor complained. “It is all babble, as I feared it would be. You accuse a man, yet you carried him back and sought help for him? Bah!”

  “Could I accuse him unconscious?” Caelan asked, his desperation rising. “Could I be heard unless he were in a condition to be judged? I have no reason to lie. My very life is endangered by what I have said. If you do not believe me, then I am a dead man. I would be safe had I kept silent.”

  “And why has the healer accused you?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You say he is your cousin?”

  Caelan found the emperor’s eyes to be more penetrating than ever, as though the man wanted to peel open his skull and peer inside. “Yes,” he said bleakly. Unwanted memories of Agel, of racing together through the spruce forests, of stealing apples, flitted through his mind momentarily and were gone, ghost voices laughing merrily before fading behind. “But I can call him kinsman no longer.”

  “He must have a reason for betraying you, if he has betrayed you.”

  Caelan frowned. “The reasons are old ones. When jealousy and grief entwine through a man’s heart, who can say why he does one thing or another? Our feud does not affect this matter—”

  “I think it does. I will know everything.”

  Caelan sighed. He did not understand why the old man had to probe into matters that were personal. “May I have a drink of water?”

  “No,” the emperor said in an implacable voice. “Talk.”

  “We were at school together, to be healers,” Caelan said in a low, toneless voice, trying to shut off the pain. “I— my father wished me to be there, although I wanted to be a soldier in your army.”

  His gaze flicked to the emperor, who watched him impassively. Caelan shrugged. “A boyish dream. I was rebellious. The elders of the school eventually disrobed me—cast me out. Agel stayed, a model student, but he never forgave me. I had more talent than he did; he considered my actions a waste.”

  Spoken aloud, it did not seem like much of a motivation. Caelan hesitated a moment, then added, “There is more to it than a boyhood rivalry. Agel is ambitious. He thought this matter would bring him the gratitude of his highness. As a slave, I embarrass him.”

  The emperor turned away from him, hands clasped at his back. Back and forth he paced, deep in thought. Finally he stopped and faced Caelan again.

  “If I had not seen you fight the Madrun, I would not have come down here. My son offered you a magical potion to strengthen you against your opponent, but you refused it. Why?”

  Caelan blinked in surprise. Did the emperor know everything? “I—I do not believe in such things, Majesty,” he said.

  “Yes, you believe,” the emperor said, turning the meaning of his remark. “You believe all right, and you’re afraid. Why?”

  Caelan’s heart started pounding. Yet he could not escape. “I will not sip of the shadows, Majesty,” he said, gasping a little.

  “Hah!” The emperor drew back as though struck. His scowl was fearsome. “Self-righteous bastard, what do you know of the world? What do you know of shadows? Do you judge me, you piece of dung?”

  Caelan dropped his gaze hastily. “No, Majesty,” he whispered.

  “No,” the emperor said more calmly. “No, you do not. So you fought without magic. You fought with valor and courage and skill. You fought like a damned fool. And you used the Dance of Death, you, a mere slave, with no military service behind you. I know it is believed by some that my son taught you that move. But I happen to know that Tirhin is unacquainted with it, except in theory. It was never taught to him. How did you know it, slave?”

  Caelan swallowed hard and had no answer.

  “How did you know it?” the emperor demanded more harshly, forcing Caelan to look at him. His yellow eyes bored in. “A Traulander, bred to peace, the son of a master healer committed to pacifism.”

  Caelan’s mouth dropped open. “You knew my father?”

  “I did,” the emperor said grimly. “The proud fool refused my offer of an appointment. How did you learn that sword move?”

  Caelan’s gaze shifted away, then came back to his. He said nothing.

  The emperor leaned closer. “Was it the sword?” he asked in a scratchy whisper. “A blade of many combats. Did it sing to your blood? Did it share its secrets?”

  Caelan’s eyes widened.

  The emperor laughed at him. “Do you think I don’t recognize sevaisin when I see it? Do you think Sien would not know?”

  Caelan’s mouth was suddenly dry. “It is a great shame in my country.”

  “So is using severance to kill.”

  Caelan felt jolted. The denial rose to his lips, but he held it back.

  “But, no, you fight fair,” the emperor said. “Always you fight fair, although there are no rules in the arena. You have won the championship every time, and by rights my son should have freed you for that. You do not drink excessively. You do not sport with the Haggai. You do not spend the gold my son has given you. Except for being a slave, you conduct yourself with honor and honesty. Rare qualities rarely seen these days.”

  Caelan had no answer. He waited, hoping for the emperor’s mercy.

  “What did Tirhin do to destroy your loyalty?” the emperor mused. “Was it treachery alone?”

  Hope filled Caelan. “Then your Majesty does believe me?”

  “Hah!” Anger returned to the emperor’s face. He spun on his heel and strode away, trotting up the steps and sweeping out past the soldier at the door, who stiffened to attention.

  Caelan watched him go, chilled with dismay. It was over. His chance had come and gone. He had failed to convince the man, and with him went Caelan’s last hope.

  His consciousness of his surroundings returned. The wailing sawed on his nerves, and he could once again smell the filth and despair. Like a beetle, the torturer came scuttling forth from the shadows and grimaced in his face.

  “Speak plenty now!” he said petulantly, and struck Caelan.

  The pain and gray misery swept through him again. He was choking, coughing, balanced halfway between oblivion and agony when he heard the rattle of his shackles. One of them opened, and his right arm dropped to his side.

  Fire lanced through him, piercing straight through his shoulder with such intensity he could not find enough breath to scream. His left arm dropped too, borne down by the weight of the shackles and the chain that thumped him a glancing blow on the side of his face. He tumbled to the floor, unable to catch himself, lost in the fire of his wrenched shoulder sockets.

  The torturer kicked him, grunted, and scuttled away. After a moment the intense pain abated slightly, only to flare again when a pair of turnkeys grabbed him by his elbows and lifted him.

  Caelan bit off a cry, sweating and unable to walk. They propelled him forward, shoving him across the chamber and up the steps into the hands of some soldiers.

  Barely conscious, Caelan glimpsed their cold eyes and taut mouths and knew they were taking him to execution. He’d been a fool all his life. He would die a fool. He should never have spoken the truth, not even to the emperor. What good had it done him but bring him to this misery and shame?

  “Come on, get on your feet,” one of the soldiers snarled at him. “If you can’t get to barracks on your own strength, you don’t deserve to be a member of the guard.”

  Caelan didn’t understand at first. He stumbled, found himself jerked up, and broke out in a cold sweat. One of them slammed him against the wall, and he managed to brace himself there.

  “What?” he ask
ed in bewilderment, not certain he had heard right.

  “Gault, but you stink,” one of them said, wrinkling his nose.

  “He’ll be crawling with lice. Watch him,” another warned.

  “Arena scum—”

  “No, no, Zoma,” a man said. “He’s a champion. I won money on you, Giant. But you’ll have to change your ways now.”

  Caelan still couldn’t believe it, although slowly comprehension was beginning to sink in. He looked at their faces, seeing neither friendliness nor condemnation. “I’m not going to be beheaded?”

  They laughed in a roar that made his head ring.

  “He’s out of his wits,” Zoma said. “Move on. The sergeant will cut you down to size soon enough.”

  Gathering him up, they shoved him onward, taking him out of the dungeons and out across the grounds toward the barracks. It was night, and very cold. Shivering and still wet, Caelan stumbled along as though in a dream. If he was to live, he found he could not let himself believe it yet. He was afraid it might vanish like ashes blowing through his fingers. It could be another cruel joke, a final measure of hope meted out to him before the axe fell. But with every step he began to believe despite his caution.

  “Have I been pardoned?” he finally asked.

  “From what?” Zoma asked, giving him another shove. “Is this man accused of any crimes?”

  “No official charges.”

  “No, just that he stinks.”

  “You stink,” Zoma said with a smirk. “Your punishment is a bath and severe scrubbing. If I catch any of your vermin, I’ll peel your skull.”

  Caelan grinned. He straightened, his legs suddenly finding strength. He was to be a soldier, he realized. After all these years, after all this struggle, it was finally coming true. He could not be a soldier unless he was free. No slaves served in the army.

  His heart filled up fast, ready to burst with intense happiness. Right then none of his aches mattered. He went staggering across the immense parade ground, managing to keep up with their long strides. He couldn’t stop grinning, not even when they stripped him naked and threw him bodily into a trough of icy water.

  “Get clean,” he was told.