Shadow War (42 page)

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.

The Madruns were
equipped with shorter swords, designed for thrusting and fighting hand to hand.
Under Caelan’s attack, they fell back once more, then held their position
shoulder to shoulder before him. Caelan fought them together, his blows driven
by the sense of time running out. Every moment he delayed here kept him from
his objective and put the empress in greater danger of being left behind.

His longer reach
enabled him to finally slide over the guard of the bleeding man on the left.
Caelan’s sword ripped open the man’s chest. The Madrun croaked out a final
incomprehensible word of defiance, probably a curse, and fell.

The remaining one
screamed defiance and charged, but Caelan had seen that move before. He ducked
recklessly under the man’s arm and spitted him full length on his sword.

The Madrun’s eyes
flew open wide. He stared at Caelan in disbelief; then blood filled his mouth,
and he sank into death.

Caelan pulled free
his sword and wiped it clean on the man’s back.

Straightening,
breathing hard, he slung sweat from his eyes and glanced over his shoulder.

His eyes met those
of the girl’s. Hers were clear, horrified, and steady.

“Come,” he said.

She hurried to
him, sidestepping the dead men without hesitation, and took his hand again. “Well
done,” she said, and only the breathlessness of her voice betrayed how fearful
she’d been.

It was a warrior’s
compliment she gave, and her understated praise pleased him. He wondered where
she had learned to do that. Perhaps from her warlord father. Perhaps she, alone
of all the women he had met, understood what it meant to glory in the combat,
yet to suffer for the aftermath of death and silence.

“We must hurry”
was all he said as he swung away from the fallen men. He would not grieve for
this enemy.

Together, he and
the empress hastened onward.

A few minutes
later, he pushed through a door and stumbled outside into the darkness.
Barrels, stone amphoras, and casks filled the area. Dragging in a deep breath,
Caelan looked around to get his bearings. They were somewhere along the rear of
the palace, on the northwestern side, close to the delivery entrances for
provisions. The mighty walls of the compound towered above him, seemingly
invincible, their dark sides reaching up to the inky sky.

But no matter how
thick or how high the walls, if the gates were opened, they counted not at all.

Caelan swung left,
pulling her after him. “This way,” he whispered.

They ran down an
alley stacked with barrels and crates, half-seen obstacles in the darkness.

At the corner,
however, torchlight flared orange in the distance, and behind them tongues of
fire began to lick at upper-story windows.

Caelan plunged to
a halt and peered around the corner. The parade ground stretched out ahead of
him on his left, a vast distance filled with a melee of fighting men. The sight
heartened him. If the Guard could hold the Madruns here, there was a chance of
regaining the palace.

But right now,
that was not his concern. He swung his gaze right, toward the stables, and saw
bunches of Madruns trotting past. Fire could be seen blazing through the
windows, and there came the neighs of panicked horses.

Elandra clutched
at his cloak, her shoulder brushing against his armored back. “You said the
stables,” she told him. “How can we reach them?”

Caelan shook his
head. “Too late. The emperor is gone.”

“But—”

A wave of sudden
exhaustion, borne by defeat, rolled over him. He pushed it off and measured the
distance to the stables with his eye, only to swear in frustration. Impossible
to get there with so many of the enemy around.

“I will leave you
here,” he said, thinking aloud. “If I can get a horse, there is still—”

“No,” the empress
said firmly. “They will kill you.”

“But—”

“Look at the main
gates,” she said, pointing. “Can we ride through them even if you did get
horses?”

He turned his head
and saw the massive bronze gates shining in the light of the bonfires and
burning barracks. A group of guardsmen fought valiantly there, but they were
outnumbered. As Caelan watched, screaming Madruns cut down the guardsmen and
swarmed at the gates, pushing them open.

Caelan’s breath
caught in his throat. He stared in horror as more Madrun troops poured in from
outside.

It was over. The
few pockets of resistance remaining in the compound would be hunted down soon
enough. Already the enemy was running, swarming inside with their weapons held
aloft in victory. They howled strange war cries that sent chills up the back of
Caelan’s neck.

He growled in his
throat, gripping his sword tighter.

Beside him,
Elandra was weeping. “Oh, Gault, no ... no!” she cried softly.

Caelan knew an
insane urge to run full tilt out into the open and attack as many as he could,
to kill and slash and destroy. Then he withdrew from the corner and pressed his
back against the wall, breathing hard as he fought the
se-vaisin.
To
surrender to his grief and outrage, to go mad and fight now, was to die.

And he did not
intend to be defeated—or killed—yet.

“It is over,”
Elandra said in a disbelieving whisper. “We are finished.”

“No, there is
still a chance,” he said. He pressed his fingers to her lips when she tried to
protest. “Hush. Don’t argue. We must hurry.”

When he pulled on
her hand, she hung back. “I will die if I run much farther.”

Caelan had no
patience with that. “You’ll die for certain if you don’t. Now come!”

“But where can we
go?”

He pointed at the
dark and silent temples at the far end of the compound. The looting had not
reached them yet; perhaps the superstitious Madruns were avoiding them for now.
Caelan knew there were underground chambers beneath the temples, at least the
Temple of Gault. They could take refuge there. If nothing else, it would buy
them some time until he figured out a plan.

The empress gave
him a nod, her protests stilled.

Keeping to the
shadows at the base of the walls, he trotted along as fast as he dared,
freezing in place each time he spied another band of Madruns. More of them were
scattering from the general conflict, intent on pillaging and destroying. Many
carried torches, and they were laughing, talking loudly and arrogantly in their
native tongue.

The riches waiting
for them inside the palace clearly had them distracted, although as yet several
were busy using their daggers to perform atrocities on the corpses of the
fallen guardsmen. More than once Caelan tried to shield the empress from
witnessing these horrors, but it was impossible. She made no sound, no outcry.
When he glanced at her through the gloom, he saw only the pale blur of her
face.

They crept on,
hurrying as fast as they dared while keeping to the scant cover available. The
darkness was their ally, and the farther they ran from the palace, the less
torchlight and firelight there was to expose them.