Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  Shouting men stormed along a cross-passageway, brandishing torches and drawn swords. They looked foreign, barbaric.

  Elandra flinched back, pressing herself against the wall. To her relief, none of them noticed her. But it had been a close call, and her heart would not stop pounding. She dared not continue forward, but she feared to turn back.

  Who were those men? Hadn’t Kostimon boasted to her only hours ago that the invading Madruns had been turned back?

  “Majesty,” whispered a voice from behind her.

  She whirled around with a muffled cry, only to sag with relief at the sight of one of her guardsmen. He was missing his helmet, and his gold cloak was ripped and stained, but he was an ally.

  She ran to him, grateful. “Take me to the emperor, at once.”

  “Not this way,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth on the alert. “Come, I must get you to the stables.”

  He hurried her back the way she’d come, then pulled her down a short flight of steps into the servants’ corridor. They wound through a series of seemingly endless passageway, sometimes using the main ways, sometimes the servants’.

  After several minutes, when Elandra was quite breathless from keeping up with his loping stride, the guardsman abruptly turned and pushed her into the scant protection of a doorway. She stood there beside him, trembling, her gown and shoes still clutched in her arms, and listened to the sounds of approaching men.

  He touched her arm lightly. When she looked up, he put his finger to his lips.

  He was very grim as he drew his sword, taking care to make no sound. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed to her.

  She realized he meant to confront the band approaching. He would fight them, outnumbered, to give her a chance to run. She wanted to weep for his courage, but she could not indulge in her emotions now. She must not waste the gift of his life. She must be ready to run faster than she had ever run before.

  His hand gripped her arm above the elbow, tightening too hard. Both tense, they waited.

  Then the men were upon them, striding hard and purposefully.

  The guardsman shoved Elandra so hard she stumbled and nearly fell, and flung himself in the path of the men.

  “Hold!” snapped a voice. “We’re friends, you fool.”

  “My lady, wait!”

  But Elandra was already spinning around, breathless with relief to see the red cloaks of the Imperial Guard looming out of the shadows. Their swords were bloody. Their eyes were blazing and brutal.

  Her guardsman spoke to them rapidly, reporting to the sergeant in command. He pointed at Elandra, who returned to his side with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “I must be at the side of the emperor,” she said, making her voice sound far more steady and assured than she really was. “What has happened?”

  “We’ve no time to waste on this. Reinforcements must be got through to the eastern side of the palace,” the sergeant said, his gaze sliding past her impatiently to the guardsman. “Can you get us there?”

  “Aye, but I’m responsible for her Majesty.”

  The sergeant scowled. “Where’s the protector?”

  His impatience angered Elandra. She glared at him. “My protector is dead, killed defending my life.”

  Their eyes flickered, and for a moment they were human beings again, chastened and respectful.

  “Damned savages,” the sergeant muttered. “We’ll have to split up—”

  Another group of guardsmen joined them, taut and wild-looking, bringing some of their wounded with them.

  “Move on!” one shouted. “We’re falling back. The central part of the palace is lost. They’ve started to loot now.”

  Horror spread across every face, and Elandra shared the shame and impotent fury all of them were feeling. To have barbarians in the palace that had stood untouched for nearly a thousand years was a desecration, a nightmare that could not be believed and yet was happening.

  “Majesty!” said an accented voice that made her head snap around.

  She looked and saw a man pushing his way through the soldiers, head and shoulders above the other men, his blue eyes vivid in the silhouette of his face.

  “Caelan!” she said in relief, feeling safe for the first time tonight. “Give me your aid in reaching my husband.”

  “She cannot fall into their hands. She must be protected,” the sergeant said, turning about to see who Caelan was. He grunted and jerked his head in an unspoken command.

  Caelan stepped clear of the others, and they marched on.

  The guardsman in gold lingered behind only to bow to her. “Please, Majesty, give me leave to fight.”

  “Go,” she said.

  He saluted her and swung around after the departing men, giving Caelan one quick, meaningful glance as though to pass his responsibility into Caelan’s hands.

  She faced the Traulander, who was alert, standing high, his nostrils quivering and his eyes keen and bright. He loved this, she realized. The danger, the excitement, the threat of combat... these all combined to bring him alive.

  “Is the palace truly lost?” she asked, unable to believe it still.

  “It will be soon,” he replied. “We were betrayed. Someone let them in, and they gained a stranglehold before the alarm was sounded.”

  Elandra drew in a sharp breath, angry and shamed. “Tirhin?”

  He nodded, looking grim. “I saw him leading the opposing forces. The emperor fell back twice, cursing him before gods and men, trying to hold.”

  “The emperor has not been taken?” she asked in sudden fear.

  “No,” Caelan said grimly. “He has been persuaded to save himself, in order that we can regroup the army elsewhere.”

  “But to leave the palace—”

  “It has to be done, and you must hurry if you’re not to be left behind as part of the spoils.”

  She glared at him, outraged that he would even think it, much less say it, but she didn’t protest. There wasn’t time for an argument.

  He gripped her elbow through her cloak, only to release her in startlement. He frowned, started to touch the magic cloth again, then did not.

  “It comes from Mahira,” she said. “It has a protective spell on it. I am surprised you could feel it. No one else has.”

  “I can do many things most cannot,” he said grimly. “Have you shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put them on. We’ll be outside in a moment, if the gods favor us. Put your gown on too, over your nightclothes.”

  She knew he was right. Hurriedly she crammed her bare feet into her shoes. “Help me.”

  “Better that I should stand guard,” he said, and retreated a short distance from her. “Hurry.”

  Mouthing a curse to herself, she slipped off her cloak and pulled the gown over her head. It was awkward, doing this alone, not because she was incapable of dressing herself but because the gown’s design made it difficult to handle the lacings alone. It did not fit well over her sleeping robes, but she shook the folds of the skirt down impatiently and put on her cloak again.

  “Ready,” she said, trying to braid her hair so it wouldn’t fly into her face.

  He turned to look at her over his shoulder. Wreathed in shadow, his face concealed, he stood tall and formidable in his long cloak and breastplate, the sword shifting alertly in his strong grip. His long hair swung free about his shoulders, and she could feel danger radiating from him, directed not at her but at any potential foe, a savage readiness to attack and rend.

  Was it fate that continued to cross her path with his? Or something else?

  This was not the time to seek answers to those questions. She trusted him to protect her; that was all that mattered.

  “Come,” he said.

  She joined his side, feeling reassured by his size. “There is something else you should know.”

  “Hurry,” he said, striding forward.

  She had to trot to keep up. “There are forces of the darkness at work here tonig
ht.”

  That got his attention. He stopped in mid-step and stared at her. “Explain.”

  She described the shadows and how they had killed Rander and attacked her. “If you have any special means of protection from the gods you believe in, I beg you will call on it. We have more enemies than just the Madruns.”

  He was scowling, his eyes deep in thought. Almost absently he touched the throat of his breastplate in the manner of a man who wears an amulet. “Who calls forth the shadows?” he wondered aloud. “Who commands them?”

  “I know not. Indeed, I will never see a man’s shadow again and feel safe.”

  Caelan’s brows knotted tighter, but he speculated no further. He seemed suddenly remote from her, as though he had stepped into a place where she could not follow.

  He reached out and gripped her hand hard in his. It was a liberty that ordinarily she would not have permitted. Right now, however, it was a reassuring link from one human being to another. She gripped back just as tightly.

  “No matter what, you must stay close to me,” he said, his voice colder and harsher than usual. “You must follow orders, on the instant, with no hesitation, no argument.”

  She felt breathless with fear. Fighting the cowardly urge to retreat, she forced herself to nod. “I will,” she promised.

  “Then come.” And he strode forward again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With the hand of Empress Elandra clamped firmly in his, Caelan pushed himself deeper into severance to heighten his senses, but also to protect himself against the distraction she presented.

  He hurried her along the passageway, questing constantly for trouble, more aware than she of how much danger they were in. She obviously believed the palace was still held by the guards, but Caelan knew differently. Most of the Imperial Guard on duty inside the palace itself were now dead, killed by poison or in savage hand-to-hand fighting.

  Worst of all were the traitors, guardsmen who had joined Tirhin at the last minute, turning unexpectedly on their comrades to slay them before running to the ranks of the Madruns. At this stage, it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Many of the traitors wore the empress’s gold colors, and a few minutes before when Caelan had seen her standing trustingly next to a Gold guardsman, his heart had stopped. He expected to see her die of a quick knife thrust then and there, but the man had been loyal. He might well be the last loyal Gold alive.

  So much betrayal... with every stride, Caelan’s fury beat harder. Who had convinced the emperor the Madrun invaders had been turned back? Who had told him such lies? And why had the emperor believed them despite clear warnings?

  The truth was, the Madruns had swept across the borders exactly as Tirhin had worked out. All the daily dispatches received by the emperor this week, including those brought by the Thyzarene, held false reports, which meant this plot had pervaded the government in every corner of the empire.

  Kostimon’s throne had seemed secure, but it wasn’t. How many men had plotted with Tirhin, silently shifting over to his side while concealing their change of loyalties? Who had counseled the emperor to be merciful toward his son and not punish him for his betrayal?

  That night in the dungeons, the emperor had believed what Caelan told him. Caelan had seen it in the man’s eyes. Moreover, the emperor knew his son had conspired years before, in an earlier, abortive plot. Yet this week he did not even attempt to punish Tirhin, much less stop him. Gault above, how many warnings did a man require before he would listen?

  It was like the last days of E’nonhold again, when Caelan had begged his father to arm the hold and stand prepared in case of attack. Ample warnings of Thyzarene raiding had come, but Beva E’non wouldn’t listen. And in the end, everyone in the hold had been either slaughtered or carried off into slavery by the Thyzarenes.

  Now it was the same thing happening again, only on a bigger scale.

  Caelan felt his emotions surging up, threatening his control. He swore beneath his breath. He could not think about the past, and should not think about the present. What mattered right now was getting out of here alive.

  He saw fire raging ahead, blocking the passageway. Caelan turned back to take another route. He did not know his way well, but he had a good sense of direction even in this maze of rooms and passages. He did not fear becoming lost.

  Indeed, he must not fail his duties tonight, for entrusted to him by the fates was the largest responsibility he had known since he abandoned his little sister at the ice caves.

  Caelan glanced down at the empress, hurrying breathlessly along at his side. She must be tiring, but she did not complain. There was fear in her face, but courage also. He noticed the dagger she clutched, and he admired her determination to survive.

  Even now he still felt like the biggest fool alive for how he’d acted toward her the other day in Agel’s quarters. Like an idiot, he had refused to believe she was the empress, when he knew nothing about it. And then to come face to face with her again the day she chose a protector ... he had been mortified with no means of apologizing to her. She could have destroyed him that day with a word of complaint to the emperor, but she did not.

  She had not chosen him as her protector either, but that had been a relief. He would have felt obliged to crawl on his belly for her forgiveness, and he did not want that. He’d swallowed enough humiliations for a lifetime. Nor did he have any wish to be a lapdog protector tagging at the heels of his mistress. All he wanted was to be a simple soldier, fighting the enemy, far from intrigues and hidden motives.

  Still, despite everything, here she was in his keeping tonight. His fear was like a lump of ice in his gut. What if he failed to save her, the way he’d failed Lea?

  He’d seen the relief and trust in her Majesty’s eyes when he’d walked up tonight. In that moment he had felt a strange weakness flood his loins, and he would have lain down his life for hers.

  It was strange, this desire to guard and protect her. He had felt nothing akin to this since he’d lost Lea, and yet this woman was completely unlike his sister.

  It was not really for the sake of her beauty. He had seen beautiful faces before. Nor did it have much to do with how fierce her eyes could be one moment or how vulnerable they turned the next.

  No, it was her courage he admired. Her steely determination. Her resolute ability to face facts, no matter how unpleasant. She did not wail and weep, wringing her hands and demanding rescue.

  Somehow she had fought off the attack of the shadows, and she had searched until she found men to help her. She was far from helpless, and he valued that more than he could describe.

  Besides, above all else, she was empress sovereign, ruler of this land after the emperor himself. She could not be lost, must not be lost. She represented order and stability. Along with the emperor, she was the empire. And as such, she constituted its most precious resource.

  But why was he the only one who realized it?

  Caelan’s anger boiled hotter, and he quickened his pace until she was almost running to keep up.

  “Please,” she said, panting.

  His gaze flicked to hers. “Your pardon,” he murmured, and slowed down for a moment, only to unconsciously speed up again as his sense of urgency grew.

  He had seen the panicky chancellors milling around; had seen the emperor protest one last time, then give in to their entreaties with an expression of bleak despair. Even now the man was probably mounting his horse at the stables, seizing his final opportunity to escape this carnage, with no thought at all for the wife he was leaving behind.

  Not once had Elandra’s name been mentioned in all the chaos. Not once had Caelan overheard the emperor ask about her. Was the man that shallow, that selfish, that he could forget her?

  Caelan’s fingers tightened on hers. It was insupportable, this cowardice, and he vowed that he would not let the emperor abandon her.

  “Hurry,” he urged her when she flagged.

  She nodded, looking pale with fatigue, and quickened
her pace obediently again.

  They hastened down a flight of stairs and rounded a corner, only to come face to face with a small band of roving Madruns.

  Caelan plunged to a halt so abruptly the empress bumped into him. He ignored her, ignored how she involuntarily clutched at his sleeve with a tiny gasp.

  Dismay surged into his throat like sour bile. He hadn’t heard these three, hadn’t even sensed them. Were they shielded within some kind of spell, that they could pass like shadows?

  They looked equally startled. The Madruns wore heavy leather breastplates and loin straps. Their bare legs were black with dried mire to the knees, and their weapons and arms were splattered with blood and gore. With their filed teeth and red eyes, clustered there in the gloom of the badly lit passageway, they were creatures from a nightmare.

  Everyone stood momentarily frozen; then the Madruns’ gazes fell on Elandra, and they grinned.

  The primal lust in their savage faces enraged Caelan. He shoved the empress back from him, hard enough to almost overbalance her, and faced them with both his sword and dagger drawn.

  Gathering up her skirts, Elandra scrambled back up the steps to give him maneuvering room. He had one last glimpse of her white, fearful face before he gave all his attention to the Madruns.

  They shrilled out war cries and attacked together, three against one. Undaunted by the odds, Caelan threw his dagger, quick and hard. It hit its target in the foremost man’s eye, quivering there as it penetrated his brain.

  Screaming, the Madrun fell back, momentarily blocking the progress of the other two. Caelan charged them, swinging his sword up and across in a swipe that just missed decapitating the one on the left. Following through with his swing, he aimed it at the second man, who ducked and stumbled back with a howl.

  Caelan stepped back in a half-pivot and parried the sword of the man on his left, now bleeding copiously from the wound at the base of his neck. Caelan hopped nimbly over the body of the fallen Madrun and forced his opponents down the stairs with a brutal, driving attack.

  The passageway was too narrow for him to use his sword to its fullest extent. Hampered by the close quarters and lack of sufficient maneuvering room, he had to adjust his swing to avoid nicking his blade on the stone walls. However, neither could the Madruns circle behind him the way they so obviously wanted. He knew well their pattern of attack fighting: outnumber, surround, and maul.