Shadow War (38 page)

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.

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?”