Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  Shivering and sputtering, he scrubbed until his hide felt raw. Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he dashed indoors only to find himself surrounded by a circle of brawny men.

  Every face looked hostile. Not a smile of welcome flickered from one of them. A set of clothing came hurtling through the air and smacked him in the face.

  He caught it clumsily, still unable to raise his hands higher than his elbows.

  “Get dressed,” he was told.

  Someone else kicked a bucket his way. “The floor is dirty, slave. Scrub it.”

  Caelan stood there his hopes and dreams dying away while they laughed in open scorn and turned their backs on him.

  When he didn’t move, Zoma came over and gave him a hard shove that nearly overbalanced him. “Are you deaf? You heard the sergeant. Get to scrubbing.”

  “But I—I thought—”

  “You thought what?” Zoma asked him scathingly.

  There was no answer. Caelan’s protest died in his throat. He looked down, his face hot, his hands clumsy with the clothing.

  Zoma shoved him again, sending him stumbling against the empty bucket. It fell over with a clatter. “Get to work! Or you’ll stay up all night, scrubbing in the dark.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the morning bugles sounded, Caelan awakened with a start, forgetting at first where he was. Then the door to the barracks banged open, and an officer came striding in.

  “Attention!” bawled the barracks sergeant, looking as startled as any of them.

  The soldiers scrambled from their bunks and hastily assembled themselves in a line. Wearing only their nethers, their hairy chests pimpled with cold, their hair standing on end, and their jaws unshaved, they looked a bleary lot.

  Caelan, who had slept on the floor in the uncaring slumber of exhaustion, climbed to his feet also but stood slightly apart from the others. The homespun tunic they’d given him was ridiculously small, and his wrists dangled from the sleeves like an overgrown boy’s. In the clear early light his arms showed their bruises and shackle sores plainly. His shoulders still ached, but he could move his arms in a near-normal range of motion again. Fast healer, he thought derisively to himself. Hurry up and recover so you can take the next round of abuse.

  The officer’s gaze swept around the barrack like a cold northern wind and came to rest on Caelan. “Is this the man?”

  The sergeant stepped forward smartly. “New recruit, yes, sir.”

  The officer looked Caelan up and down, his eyes missing nothing, not even the pail of dirty scrub water with the brush floating on top of the scum.

  His mouth tightened. “In my day, sergeant, the recruits were set to polishing armor as part of their initiation. Floors don’t seem quite in keeping with the dignity of the Imperial Guard, do they?”

  The sergeant’s face stayed as blank as the wall. “No, sir.”

  “Present the men for inspection by second bugle.”

  The sergeant’s fist slammed against his left shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

  The officer pointed at Caelan. “You, come with me.”

  Caelan stepped forward warily and walked past the silent row of men. He no longer knew what to think. Their cruelty in letting him believe he was still a slave stoked his growing resentment. He remembered the brutality of the soldiers he had met as a boy and how they had robbed him on the road like common brigands. These men were no better, and as guardsmen, they were the elite of the emperor’s fighting forces. He glanced at their stoic faces as he walked past and wondered how many more unpleasant surprises they had in store for him.

  Outside, the air was frosty and still. Caelan’s breath streamed about his face as he looked around. A small cluster of men in crimson cloaks and armor stood waiting.

  “Get it done quickly, Sergeant Baiter,” the officer said to a short, burly individual who saluted.

  The officer walked away without another glance at Caelan.

  Frowning, Caelan stared at the others. “What am I—”

  “Silence!” the burly sergeant snapped at him. “Fall in.”

  The other two guardsmen stepped behind Caelan, and he had no choice but to follow Baiter down the long row of barracks to a sort of courtyard formed in the angle between the last barracks and the stables. Paved with flat stones, the area held a set of stocks, a whipping post, a fountain stilled beneath a skim of ice, and a smithy.

  It was to the last that Caelan was taken.

  He stepped into the open-sided hut, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling. The smith, muscular and sweating, already had his bellows going and a fire burning in his forge. The air in the hut smelled of charred hair, hot metal, and ash. Caelan suddenly suspected what was coming. He tensed, swallowing hard, and made his mind a blank.

  Sergeant Baiter exchanged a brief word with the smith, then snapped his fingers at Caelan. “He will remove your slave chain.”

  Caelan’s throat was too full and tight to answer. He nodded silently, his eyes full of what he could not say.

  “Come o’er,” the smith said. Bearded and taciturn, he pointed at an anvil.

  Caelan stepped over to it.

  “Show us, then,” the smith commanded.

  Caelan fished out the golden chain around his throat. The smith’s blackened hand fingered it.

  “Pity to break that,” he said, but pointed again at the anvil. “Lay yer head to it. Hold still, else the chisel’ll go through yer throat ‘stead of next it.”

  Swallowing, Caelan felt tremors go through him. His emotions were threatening to overwhelm him, and almost savagely he forced them down. He must not think. He must not feel. If he was to be freed, then let it be done. Until the chain was taken off his throat, he would believe in nothing.

  Bending over, he pressed the side of his face to the cold, hard surface of the steel anvil. The smith moved Caelan’s head so he could loop the slight amount of slack in the chain over the narrow, pointed end of the anvil. It was an uncomfortable position, but Caelan remembered the smith’s warning and held himself absolutely still, hardly even breathing.

  The smith took his time. He positioned the chisel on the links of the chain. It was an intricate piece of work, thick and very fine, fashioned of many strands braided together. Shifting the chisel a bit, the smith pressed the flat side of it against Caelan’s jaw.

  He suppressed a shiver and closed his eyes as the smith raised his hammer.

  There came a swift, sure bang as hammer struck chisel with one blow. The chain broke and fell to the ground.

  Caelan opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself. The smith bent and picked up the chain.

  Its golden length caught the strengthening sunlight and gleamed richly against the man’s dirty fingers. He cupped it in his palm, making a shimmering heap of it, and handed it to Caelan.

  “Keep it,” he said with a sudden grin through his beard. “To remind yourself of when times was harder.”

  Slowly Caelan’s fingers closed around the chain. He had a lump in his throat. After all these years, he thought he would feel something when the day of release came. He expected to be different, transformed. Instead, everything seemed ordinary and unchanged. It was almost disappointing.

  “Take off your tunic,” Baiter said. “Let’s see if you’ve got any ownership brands.”

  Caelan wanted to hesitate, but he had too much pride before these men of war. He would exhibit no cowardice before them.

  Swiftly he pulled off the small tunic and let it dangle from one hand. At the sight of his deep, muscular chest, broad shoulders, and sun-bronzed skin, the sergeant’s eyes widened slightly.

  The smith emitted a low whistle. “Aye, could play hammer to anvil all day and never tire, with those arms.”

  He reached out for the leather thong holding Caelan’s amulet pouch. “What’s this?”

  Quicker than thought, Caelan gripped his wrist and held it with crushing strength. Anger blazed in him. “Don’t touch that.”

  The smith’s eyes grew round.
“Sure,” he said mildly.

  Caelan released him, shoving him slightly backward. “It has nothing to do with this.”

  The smith held up both hands in a placating manner. “No offense to you.”

  “Here’s a rower’s brand,” Baiter said from behind Caelan.

  Caelan knew exactly where it was; he would never forget the day the iron had been stamped into the flesh over his right shoulder blade, burning that small circle into his hide.

  “Easy,” the smith said. “Any others? Any fancy, foreign marks with them curlicues an’ such?”

  “No.”

  “Easy.”

  The sergeant stepped around to face Caelan. His face was pudgy and youthful despite the age in his eyes. With a frown, he said, “To serve in the army, all ownership marks have to be canceled. You understand?”

  Caelan’s tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Yes.”

  “Some slaves, when they’re manumitted, they keep their tunics on the rest of their lives, so nothing will show, and they don’t go through with crossing out the brand. A few runaway slaves pay smiths to cross out their brands, but such won’t have the imperial mark at the edge to show it’s official. Do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the army, you don’t have any choice. I can see plenty of stripes on your back. You’re hard to handle, are you?”

  Caelan almost smiled; then suddenly it did not seem funny. “Sometimes.”

  “Sure. All fighters are, if they’re worth anything. I’ve seen you in the arena. Spirited. Means you’re spirited out of the ring too.”

  Caelan wasn’t feeling very spirited just then. He was praying for courage.

  “In the army, men are stripped. Men are inspected. Men are flogged. Men sometimes have to dig ditches to entrench a camp or lay siege. You strip down with an uncanceled brand on your back, and you could find yourself turned in as a runaway. You see?”

  “I understand.”

  The sergeant went on staring at him hard, waiting.

  Caelan managed to nod. “Go ahead.”

  “Good man.” Stepping back, Baiter signaled to the other two soldiers. “Come and hold him.”

  “No,” Caelan said. “There’s no need.”

  The smith, who had gone back to his bellows, glanced over his shoulder. “You can’t stand still enough. You’ll blur it when you jerk, and it’ll make a bad sore.”

  “I’ll stand still,” Caelan said grimly. “I don’t want to be held.”

  The soldiers’ eyes held doubt, but when the sergeant shrugged, they backed off.

  Caelan walked over to the anvil, drawing in deep breaths as he cleared his mind. It had to be done, he told himself. Freedom had to be absolute. He wanted no ownership marks left on him. He wanted no arguments in the future with overzealous bounty hunters coming after him by mistake.

  Focusing, he pulled his mind into severance, entering the coldness of detachment. He gripped either side of the anvil and braced his feet apart, trying not to listen to the rattle of the irons or the hot sizzle of the fire.

  His heart was racing, and his knees felt weak. He almost wished he had agreed to let the men hold him down. He could yell then and kick, knowing that their strength would be greater than his.

  But he dared not have their grip on him. Because he was likely to flow into sevaisin, and if he joined with them or with the fiery metal at such a vulnerable moment, he might never return to himself.

  He could not risk that; therefore, he had to be strong. He had to find courage, whether from desperation or pride.

  “I’m coming,” the smith said. “Make yerself ready.”

  Tensing his back, Caelan lowered his head between his shoulders and tightened his grip on the anvil. He could hear the hissing metal. He could smell the heat of it. He could feel it as it neared his back. He shut his eyes, detaching even farther, driving himself deep into the coldness.

  “Now,” the smith said and put the brand to him.

  The stench of burning flesh choked his nostrils before he felt the fire burning away the coldness of severance. It came at him fast, pursuing him, melting down his strength, dissolving his control.

  Just when it reached him and consumed him, a hand gripped his left shoulder and tried to pull him away from his death grip on the anvil.

  “It’s over,” a voice said kindly. “Turn loose, lad. It’s over.”

  He fell out of severance with a gasp and dropped to his knees. His back burned as though a fire had been kindled there. Coughing, he rested his cheek against the rough wooden base supporting the anvil.

  “Here.”

  A cup was pressed to his lips. He tasted water, metallic and cold, and drank thirstily. Opening his eyes, he saw the face of the sergeant bending over him. Respect and a little awe lay in the man’s eyes.

  “You did well,” Baiter said. “The cross mark is clean and sharp, the best I’ve seen. Ice is good for it, but try to find ice in Imperia.” He snorted. “Come, then. Back to barracks to kit up. We’ll put a bandage on either side to hold your tunic off the burn. When it’s healed, you can be fitted for armor.”

  “Standard issue won’t fit,” the smith said, plunging his irons into a pail of water that hissed. Steam curled from the surface. “He’ll have to have his own armor made, same as an officer.”

  “Get to your feet, lad,” the sergeant said kindly.

  As Caelan pulled himself up shakily, Baiter slung a glance at the smith.

  “He’ll be an officer soon enough. He was a champion in the arena. Them as is champions in one way of living usually can be champions in others.”

  The smith put his fist against his left shoulder in a mocking salute, then winked at Caelan to show his jest was well intentioned. “I’ll measure fer that armor come end of week,” he promised.

  The three soldiers surrounded Caelan and walked out slowly with him, as though they were guarding him. He could feel their respect and admiration, although they did not say much. He felt warmed by them, and he found himself wishing he had been assigned to their barracks last night instead of where he’d been.

  They took him to the quartermaster, who fitted him with good clothing and boots. They took him to the armory, where one-handed he tried out daggers and swords until he made his selection.

  Baiter exchanged an awed glance with his men. “You swing that broadsword about like a feather, lad.”

  Caelan grunted. It felt good to handle weapons again. He liked the armory, its neatness and order with racks of clean, well-oiled weapons hanging on the walls. Swinging the broadsword in a wider arc, he felt his stiff muscles beginning to loosen and grow limber.

  “Not too much,” the sergeant said in warning. “You’ll waste your strength.”

  Caelan nodded reluctantly, missing Orlo’s rough advice. He wondered if the trainer would stay in Tirhin’s service, or leave it.

  Sliding his new sword into its scabbard, he made one last circuit of the armory, communing silently with the weapons, admiring them. His fingers slid across a few last blades; then he settled his hand on the hilt of his own new possession. Pride straightened his shoulders. He walked out with the others, beginning to feel like a new man.

  On the parade ground, guardsmen were lined up at stiff attention, armor and helmets shining, hands on sword hilts, chests out, eyes straight ahead.

  A trio of officers, their crimson cloaks whipping in the breeze, walked along the line. Occasionally they pulled out a man, who walked over to join a small cluster of soldiers who were chatting and jesting with each other, flexing muscles and spitting between boasts. A fourth officer, wearing a cloak of gold wool, stood to one side with his arms crossed over his chest. He was scowling at the selections.

  Baiter tapped Caelan’s arm to hurry him past. “This is for the seasoned men only. Nothing to do with you.”

  But the officers swung around and one of them said, “Sergeant Baiter, halt.”

  Stopping in his tracks, the sergeant saluted smartly. “Sir!” />
  “Why aren’t you at inspection?”

  “Just delivering a new recruit to his quarters, sir,” Baiter said.

  The officer asked another question, but Caelan stopped listening. In the distance he heard a bugle note, and idly he turned his head toward it.

  He supposed it was just another signal for the military, but it had been far away, so faint as to be barely carried over the wind.

  Another glance around showed no squadron tumbling forth. The parade ground remained deserted except for the Crimson Guard at attention here. Wind whistled desolately across its expanse, and at the far end. tattered garlands of yesterday’s festivities swung from the temple doorways.

  He heard the bugle note again, louder, as though borne by the wind itself. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  “Come on,” the sergeant said, tapping Caelan’s arm.

  He shook his head, looking up at the sky.

  “I said come.”

  “Wait,” Caelan said, indifferent to Baiter’s swift look of annoyance or the surprise that flashed across the faces of the other soldiers. “I hear something.”

  “You’ll have a lash across your back if you don’t step out now!” the sergeant commanded.

  That got Caelan’s attention. He brought his gaze down to the sergeant’s. Heat filled his face, and he barely stopped himself from bowing in a slave’s manner of apology. Obediently he stepped forward.

  The sound came again, closer and louder. It was a thunderous cry, echoing down from the heavens, a cry that had cut across his nightmares for years.

  He whirled around with a shout of his own, reaching for his sword and drawing it before anyone else could react.

  “Restrain him!” the sergeant shouted, but Caelan strong-armed his way past the men who reached for him.

  He scanned the sky again, and saw it now, a small black dot borne on the air, coming steadily closer.

  Fury swelled his throat, and he forgot everything except this chance for revenge.

  “You fool! It’s only a Thyzarene—”

  Not listening, Caelan ran across the parade ground, angling to intercept the approaching dragon and its rider.

  Swearing, soldiers ran after him, but Caelan was like the wind itself, too fleet to catch. He kept his gaze on his prey, marking where it was likely to land. He intended to be there when it did, waiting with a blade of vengeance.