Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  The dragon screamed savagely overhead, its black, leathery wings broad against the sky as it skimmed over the walls and descended toward the broad front steps of the palace.

  “Catch him!” the sergeant shouted. “Stop him!”

  Swearing, the soldiers pounded after Caelan, but he was too far ahead to catch. He ducked reflexively as the dragon sailed over him, stinking of sulfur, its taloned limbs tucked up close against its belly. Its long, barbed tail stiffened, helping to guide it down.

  It was going to land at the very top of the steps. Practically in the front door of the palace. Caelan took the steps three at a time, his long legs driving him forward.

  The sentries at the door saw him coming. He saw their faces in a blur, saw the pikes being lowered from their shoulders.

  The wiry Thyzarene rider glanced over his shoulder. The dragon’s snakelike head whipped around, and it hissed, baring its fangs.

  Shouts rang out in all directions. More guards were coming from within the palace. They ran at Caelan even as the dragon hopped sideways and lashed out with its barbed tail.

  Without a shield to block that blow, Caelan had no choice but to duck. He did so, rolling across the marble pavement too quickly to be caught by that dangerous tail, and launched himself at the vulnerable side of the dragon.

  The Thyzarene shouted something furious in his own heathen tongue and leaned over his mount to strike back at Caelan with his sword.

  Caelan’s weapon met it, one-handed, and the clash of steel rang out loudly enough to echo off the buildings.

  Then the soldiers were upon Caelan, gripping him and pulling him back bodily. He struggled against them, but by sheer numbers they held him back.

  Enraged, Caelan swore at them in his own language. “It is my right to kill him!” he shouted. “My right!”

  By now Sergeant Baiter came running up, breathless and red-faced. He backhanded Caelan across the face.

  “Are you mad?” he yelled. “Come to order now! You, disarm him.”

  One of the guardsmen wrenched the sword from Caelan’s grip. Furious, he glared past them at the Thyzarene, who jumped lightly down from the back of his dragon and slung a pouch over his shoulder. The Thyzarene glared back at Caelan and gestured an insult.

  Caelan heaved himself forward, but the men held him back once again.

  By now the officers had reached them. “What in Faure’s name is the meaning of this?” one of them demanded.

  The sergeant whirled smartly on his heel. “I do not know, sir. He saw the dragon and went berserk.”

  “Is he mad?”

  “Must be, sir.”

  “No, I am not mad,” Caelan said in exasperation.

  With a smirk the Thyzarene strolled into the palace, and Caelan stopped struggling. Reason was returning to him by degrees. He realized this must be a messenger, coming in with dispatches. He didn’t care. He had seen Thyzarenes turned loose on helpless women and children. He would never forget it. He would never forgive.

  “Sergeant Baiter, take this man to detention and sort this out.”

  The sergeant saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait,” said the officer in the gold cloak. He shouldered his way forward. “Who is this man?”

  “New recruit, sir,” Baiter replied woodenly.

  “He looks familiar. Who is he?”

  The sergeant glanced at Caelan, still rigid with anger and embarrassment. “Speak your name, but nothing else,” he said to Caelan.

  Caelan faced the officer in gold. “I am Caelan E’non.”

  Recognition leaped into the man’s eyes. “Of course. The champion of the games. I knew I had seen that speed and that sword swing before. So you’ve left the games.”

  “He has. Recruited to the Crimson Guard,” Sergeant Baiter said possessively.

  “Freed?”

  Caelan raised his chin. “Yes, sir.”

  The officer nodded. “Put this man with the other selections.”

  “But, Captain Vysal!” protested one of the officers in crimson. “He must go to detention. He’s oblivious to discipline. He would have killed that messenger if he hadn’t been stopped.”

  “Yes, General Paz, and a few days ago I saw him kill a Madrun in the arena,” Vysal said, undaunted. “I want him among the selections.”

  “But he can’t possibly be—”

  “Is there a man in this army with his size and his speed?” Vysal demanded. “He’s a ferocious fighter. You’ve seen him.”

  “He’s a savage,” the general said with disdain. “Untrained. Undisciplined. He doesn’t belong in the Imperial Guard at all, Crimson or Gold.”

  Around him Caelan heard mutters of assent from the men, until the sergeant quelled them with a glare.

  “Perhaps not,” Vysal said. “But I intend to include him in the selections just the same. Sergeant.”

  Baiter pulled his shoulders back and saluted, then signaled for the men to release Caelan. Scowling ferociously, Baiter marched Caelan down the steps.

  The dragon watched them go by with glowing eyes. It hissed, letting little sparks of flames curl through its pointed teeth.

  Caelan’s heart boiled. He glared back at it with equal savagery, ready to attack if he got the chance.

  “Come on,” Baiter muttered. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  They went on, moving fast, and with every step Baiter muttered more.

  “I should have known. Those stripes on your back. If the trainers in the arenas couldn’t handle you, I should have known you’d be a discipline problem from the first. And in front of General Paz, no less. But there’ll be no more of your nonsense here.”

  “You said you valued spirit,” Caelan retorted.

  “Silence! A soldier who can’t follow orders is useless. Useless! You do what you’re told, nothing else.”

  Caelan set his jaw. “I will fight my enemies.”

  “The Thyzarenes are allies.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Personal vendettas have no place here. You will follow orders and you will carry them out. Nothing more, nothing less. You do not think on your own. You do not act on your own.”

  A muscle worked in Caelan’s jaw, but he made no reply. He had no intention of complying with such nonsense. Not when it stood between him and what was right.

  “The captain is mad to select you,” Baiter muttered, shoving Caelan over to the others, who were still standing on the parade ground where they’d been left. “You’ll never be chosen to serve the empress. Never.”

  Caelan flicked him a resentful glance. “They killed my family,” he said harshly. “They burned and pillaged. I saw them slit my father’s throat.”

  “I don’t care,” Baiter said, equally angry. “You made a fool out of me. Now the officers will think I can’t control my own men. It’s the lash you need, and the lash you’ll have if you don’t calm down and do as you’re told. Stand here. And cause no more trouble. You understand?”

  Seething, Caelan stepped onto the precise spot the sergeant was pointing to. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the end of the week, the coronation festivities were but a memory and even an unexplained flurry of war councils had tapered off. Elandra was putting on her cloak and gloves to go riding, when a chancellor came to her chambers with a low bow.

  “Majesty, the emperor summons your presence at once.”

  She nodded and turned to one of her ladies. “Please send word to the stables to dismiss my groom.”

  The woman curtsied and went out.

  Elandra reached for the strings of her cloak. “A moment, if you please, sir, while I remove my cloak and gloves.”

  “Nay, Majesty, the day is cold and you will need them. The emperor awaits you in the armory.”

  She glanced up in quick anticipation, her heart speeding up. A dozen speculations ran through her mind, but she knew what this meant. Smiling, she said, “I am ready.”

  With the man to escort her, she hurri
ed out of the palace and down the broad steps to the immense parade ground. Her guardsmen followed close.

  It was an overcast day, gloomy and bitterly cold. Little pellets of sleet hit her face as she walked. She drew up her hood, huddling inside her fur-lined cloak, and wondered if winter would ever end. She hated the cold.

  But at least on a dreary day like this she couldn’t see the black cloud that stretched across the horizon. As an omen, it was bleak indeed. She tried not to think about it, yet what good did ignoring it do?

  As for the rumors of a Madrun invasion, they had dwindled and were now dismissed as gossip among the courtiers. Tirhin had not been cast in prison, so Elandra supposed the whole matter had been a falsehood from the first. She was glad now she had not involved herself deeply.

  The emperor had been busy and preoccupied. She had scarcely seen him since the coronation. It was as though she were a detail that had taken much of his attention for a time, but now could be dispensed with. Her life had changed little from the way it had been before the festivities, except she could come and go largely as she pleased.

  But where was there to go? What was there to do?

  She was angry at being barred from the council meetings when the chancellors came daily to advise the emperor. Thus far, her complaints had not been heeded.

  Reaching the armory, she paused while the sentries saluted and opened the doors for her. Walking inside, she found the air damp and chilly, not much more welcoming than the outdoors. The chancellor left her with a bow, and she and her guardsmen walked up the twisting stone stairs to the upper gallery that overlooked the fighting arena. The air smelled of men’s sweat, horse droppings, and tangy sawdust.

  This was where she rode her horse when the weather permitted no other option. She found riding around the rectangular arena boring exercise, but it was better than nothing. Sometimes, the Imperial Guard trained in here.

  When she reached the gallery, she saw Kostimon standing at the railing, gazing down at the activity below. Hovet, looking as sour-faced as ever, paced restlessly about with his hand resting on his sword hilt. Tirhin, handsomely dressed as always, stood near the emperor.

  Surprised, Elandra paused. She had heard that Tirhin was in disgrace with his father, but evidently that was not true.

  Lord Sien, looking bored, was also present. She felt distinctly uneasy at seeing him, and more than a little displeased. Choosing a protector was her business, not his. She did not want him here.

  But she could not dismiss the man, and that irked her also.

  Masking her emotions as best she could, she approached the party. Tirhin was the first to notice her arrival.

  His expression was sullen, and he appeared to have lost weight. He was still pale, and he did not stand quite as straight as usual. He bowed to her, and she curtsied very slightly.

  Hovet and Sien turned around, both bowing to her. She nodded her head in response and walked up to Kostimon.

  “So the time has finally come,” she said softly, not wishing to startle him.

  He didn’t look around. “Yes,” he said.

  Both of his hands were clamped on the railing. He seemed intent on watching the light skirmishing going on below, but at last his yellow eyes swung around to meet hers.

  “It is a special day, when a protector is chosen,” he said.

  Over his shoulder she could see Hovet lift his chin proudly.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “It must be someone to whom you can entrust your life,” Kostimon went on. “Someone you will never doubt.” He pointed at the arena. “Five men. See them? The officers have worked hard to winnow out all but the very best, in terms of intelligence, ability, and fighting prowess.”

  Her gaze ran over the men shifting about constantly on the sand. The pattern of their grappling confused her, but she did not wish to show it.

  “And I, Majesty,” Sien said from behind her, “have brought truth-light by which to seal your choice.”

  She forced herself to give the man a glance of courtesy. “Thank you,” she replied. “That is extra assurance, which I shall need.”

  Her gaze moved to Hovet, and she gestured for him to come closer. He frowned nervously and approached, eying the emperor as he did so.

  “You can give me the most practical advice,” she said, smiling at him in hopes of thawing his icy heart just a little. “What should I look for? What qualities should I expect?”

  For a moment Hovet looked almost human. He softened visibly and his chest puffed out a bit. Nodding, he said, “Look at them, and I’ll show your Majesty. See, now, they’re all good men. Quick on their feet, well muscled. Look at those two, circling. See how when one moves, the other anticipates him? That’s what you need, Majesty. A man with instincts and the good sense to act on them. Someone who talks himself out of his own intuition is no good at your back.”

  “I see.” Fascinated, Elandra watched a moment.

  Hovet pointed. “That big one, over there. The tallest one, see? Now he’s got good reach on him. But maybe he won’t move as fast as a more compact man. No, he’s quick. Look at that!”

  A flurry broke out, and one of the men was thrown to the ground. Elandra watched intently, wishing she understood what she was seeing.

  “Well done!” the emperor called out.

  The tall man glanced up, and Elandra blinked. Disbelieving, she leaned a little farther over the railing. He looked like the Traulander slave, the man who had begged her to get him an audience with the emperor. But it couldn’t be.

  “Yes, Majesty, it is,” Lord Sien said softly over her shoulder.

  Startled, she turned around and found the priest much too close. His deep-set eyes were gleaming as though at a joke.

  He nodded. “Yes, that is the man.”

  Wondering anew if the priest could read minds, she frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “We have been talking about that man,” Sien said smoothly. “He looks very like Prince Tirhin’s gladiator. We are curious to see the man more closely.”

  Now she did not have to pretend she was bewildered, for she truly was. “I do not understand. How could a gladiator be among our guardsmen?”

  At her question, the emperor chuckled. Prince Tirhin turned red and swung away from the rest of them.

  Elandra frowned. “Are they not drawn from the elite of our fighting forces? Or have I been misled?”

  Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. She was suspicious of all of them now.

  “No, Majesty,” said a new voice, one she did not immediately recognize.

  Vysal, captain of her guard, walked into the gallery and bowed to them. Wearing his gold cloak, with her coat of arms half-hidden on his sleeve, he walked forward with a faint swagger common to military men.

  “All of these candidates are members of the Guard,” he said to her.

  Kostimon turned around to stare at the man. “Are the men ready?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Captain Vysal said respectfully.

  Kostimon grunted. “The last time I chose a protector, I had the old one fight the candidates, one at a time. The one who defeated him took his place.” He tossed a grin at Hovet, who was looking grim again. “That was Hovet, who has been at my side ever since.”

  “Is that what you wish?” the captain asked. “Some kind of trial by combat?”

  “No,” Elandra said quickly before the emperor could reply. “I prefer to talk to the men, one at a time.”

  The men exchanged glances, and Kostimon scowled.

  “Talk!” he said impatiently. “Ela, for Gault’s sake. That’s no way to choose a protector.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “If they are all equally good at fighting, and equally intelligent, how am I to choose among them, save one I feel I can trust?”

  “Don’t forget. Majesty,” Sien said smoothly, “that I have the truth-light to determine who you can trust.”

  “It must be my judgment. No one else’s,” she said
with growing vehemence. “How am I to judge if I cannot see them for myself?”

  The prince murmured something too soft for her to hear, but Kostimon heard it. His face darkened.

  “Tirhin!” he snapped, and the prince widened his eyes in feigned innocence. “If you cannot be useful, you may leave us,” the emperor said.

  Tirhin bowed, but did not depart.

  Kostimon glared at his son for a long, tense moment before he returned his gaze to Elandra. “Very well,” he said grouchily. “If you must, do so. But I do not like it.”

  She smiled at him. “May Hovet accompany me?”

  “I would rather Hovet fought them!” Kostimon snapped.

  Something flashed through the protector’s eyes, and Elandra felt a moment of pity for him. Hovet was old, a man clearly struggling to maintain his usefulness. How he must fear that any day Kostimon would decide to replace him with a younger, stronger man.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Bah!” Kostimon said, but he gave Hovet a curt nod.

  Hovet seemed reluctant to leave him, but he followed Elandra down the steps and into the arena. Her guards trailed behind them.

  Picking up her skirts slightly to keep them out of the dirt, she approached the soldiers, who were swiftly lined up by the sergeants.

  Not exactly sure how to go about her inspection, Elandra copied her father’s manner of stopping before each man and staring at him openly, rudely, almost combatively.

  The first man was brawny and built square, with massive shoulders like a bull’s. He was also hairy and coarse, with a thick, brutish face she disliked instantly.

  The second man looked competent and well bred, but his face was cold and impassive. She gestured at one of the sergeants.

  “Walk him back and forth, please.”

  It was as though she were buying a horse, or a slave. There was an insult implied in her request, and the man did not completely succeed in masking his flash of resentment.

  Tight-lipped, eyes straight ahead, he strode past her, then came back again and resumed his place in line. He moved well, but he was angry. She did not want a man who detested her standing always at her back.