Reign of Shadows (5 page)

“Not
the dark,” Caelan said earnestly. “It’s the wind spirits that come in the
darkness.”

Two
of the soldiers grinned, but one glanced around and fingered a small amulet
hanging from his neck.

The
tattooed man eyed Caelan a while, then shrugged. “You’d better get home,
sprout. We’ve business, see?”

“But
I want to join up,” Caelan said.

The
men laughed again, elbowing each other and shaking their heads.

Caelan
grinned back, holding himself as straight and as tall as he could. “I’m old
enough and strong,” he said.

“Aye,
big enough,” the tattooed man agreed.

Another
man leaned forward. “Best take him to the sergeant, then.”

A
third man slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You daft? Boy’s run away. Sergeant
won’t join him up.”

“Please,”
Caelan said anxiously. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

The
tattooed man was still looking him over. “Well- dressed boy. Good clothes. Warm
and close-woven. You from the town?”

“Meunch?
Yes,” Caelan lied. He didn’t want them to know he’d run away from school. With
a yank he pulled off the torn remnants of his robe and tossed it away.

“Takes
money to join up,” the tattooed man said, fingering his earring. His eyes
looked dark and intense over the jagged symbol of Mael on his cheek. “Seven
hundred ducats for a kit.”

Caelan’s
heart plummeted. It was a fortune. He had nothing but a few coppers in his
pocket.

“Naw,”
the other one said scornfully. “That’s officer’s kit. This big, strapping lad
ain’t wanting none of that lot.”

“Why
not? He’s well born.”

“Take
him to the sergeant,” said the man holding the lantern. He spat near Caelan’s
foot, and Caelan flinched involuntarily.

“The
sergeant won’t take him.”

Caelan
frowned, trying to follow their argument. They were staring at him in a
peculiar way he didn’t much like. At some point they had spread out and formed
a circle around him. He swallowed and felt suddenly alone and vulnerable.

“There
must be something I can do,” he said nervously, eying them. “I’m old enough to
join and strong enough to march.”

“And
squalling like a baby for its mother when that lurker was after you.”

The
men roared with laughter. Caelan felt ashamed of his earlier fear now, but
tried not to let it show.

“How
much you got?” the tattooed man abruptly demanded.

“Sir?”

“How
much money you got?”

Caelan
looked up at their faces. “I—not much.”

“You
can’t join without buying in,” the man said gruffly. He stepped forward, and
Caelan cringed back. “Hand it over.”

Caelan
shook his head. “I don’t have any—”

They
grabbed him then and lifted him bodily despite his struggles. Rough hands
patted him down and turned out his pockets. The meager remnants of his
allowance spilled onto the road and lay gleaming in the lantern light.

The
men swore with disappointment and dropped him bodily onto the ground. One of
them kicked him.

“Is
this all he’s got?”

“Pipsqueak!”

“Faure
consume his liver!”

“Damn!”

They
kicked him again. Caelan lay huddled face down on the road, clenching his fists
and trying not to cry.

“Get
up,” growled the tattooed man.

Caelan
heaved himself up to his hands and knees, but then with an oath the man seized
him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“Where
do you live in town?” he asked.

Caelan
stared at him, seriously frightened now.

“Those
ain’t working hands you got, boy. Your da a rich man?”

Caelan
swallowed hard. He shook his head.

“Leave
him,” said one of the others. “Let’s go and see what better sport we can find.”

“What
about that fancy hold down the road a bit? Good pickings in there, I’ll bet.”

“No!”
Caelan cried involuntarily. He thought of the gate he’d so carelessly left
open, and his face flamed hot.

The
tattooed man smiled. “So you’re a schoolboy, eh?”

His
eyes were terrible, pinning Caelan’s and holding them. The obscene figure
engraved on his cheek moved with every shift of his jaw. It was all Caelan
could do not to stare at it.

“Yes,
sir,” Caelan finally said.

“I
thought as much. You wearing that cute little schoolboy robe no longer than
your bottom.”

The
men all laughed again, and Caelan’s blush intensified. He felt raw with
humiliation.

“So
what kind of school is it? And no more of your lying.”

“It’s
a school for the healing arts,” Caelan said.

They
groaned.

“No
money boxes in that kind of place.”

The
man with the tattoo narrowed his eyes. “Still want to join up?”

Caelan
hesitated, then nodded warily.

Someone
behind him snickered, but the tattooed man didn’t smile.

“You’re
no good for it,” he said, his voice cutting and contemptuous. “We’ve no use for
such cowards.”

Caelan
flinched. “I’m not—”

“Aye,
coward!” the man roared, silencing him. “A braggart and a fool, as well. You
can’t stick where you are now, so how will you do your job in the emperor’s
army? Eh?”

Without
warning he struck Caelan across the mouth with the back of his hand.

Caelan
reeled back and went sprawling on the ground. His head roared, and he thought
he might pass out.

“Lying
runaway!” the man bellowed at him. “I wouldn’t bet my life on a scab like you
holding your line position during a charge.”

“But—”

“Shut
up! You’re going back where you belong.”

Caelan
scrambled to his feet in fresh defiance. “I won’t! I—”

The
man slapped him again. The pain seemed to burst Caelan’s head. Panting with his
hand pressed against his mouth, he barely managed to keep his feet this time.

“Leave
it,” one of the men urged. “Let’s go find the town. There’s better prey there
than this.”

“Better
shut him up, though,” warned another.

Their
eyes held no mercy. Frightened, Caelan took a step back and dodged his way out
of the circle.

“Coward!”
one of them taunted him.

“Mama’s
boy!” another joined in.

Their
teeth gleamed in the lantern light.

“Run,
schoolboy. Run for mama.”

The
man with the tattoo pulled out a javelin and hefted it in his hand. His eyes
narrowed, sizing up Caelan. Then he smiled a terrible, empty smile.

Fear
congealed in Caelan’s veins. For a moment he could only stare, caught like a
rabbit before a snake; then he turned and ran for his life.

The
wind whistled in his ears, and the light from the lantern dwindled quickly
behind him. Darkness faced him, and the cold wind lashed his face as though
trying to slow him down. All he could think of was his own exposed back and of
how the lurker had died from a javelin throw.

Behind
him the men shouted encouragement and called out bets.

They
were laughing, and Caelan told himself they were only trying to scare him.
Maybe they wouldn’t really spear him in the back for sport. After all, they had
saved his life.

He
stumbled on his bad leg and glanced back just in time to see the man throw.

The
javelin came, arcing perfectly through the air. Too late, Caelan tried to
double his speed, tried to zigzag to dodge it.

Too
late.

It
hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, bringing a ripping flame across his
back. The impact drove him down, and he was falling, falling in a tumbling dive
that took him off the road and down into the ditch beyond it.

There
were sticks and briars and stubble from where the bank had been cleared. He
rolled in a bruising tangle,  unable to stop his impetus, and all the while
there was the brutal fire in his back, unquenchable, driving him mad.

He
landed at the bottom with a jolt. Numbed and shaken, he sank into stagnant mud
and water that was freezing cold. With a groan, he tried once to lift himself,
but the effort proved beyond his strength.

He
groaned again, hurting so much he couldn’t think. The darkness seemed to tilt
and fold over him. He heard a strange rushing sound, and then there was
nothing, nothing at all.

Caelan
awakened in
a shaft of sunlight that streamed in over his cot. The air smelled warm and
aromatic with herbs. Dragging open his eyes, he blinked slowly until the room
began to make sense. It smelled like the infirmary at school, only he was
surrounded by screens that blocked his view of the rest of the ward.

He
felt strangely light-headed and lethargic. A warm blanket of moag wool covered
him, and a little brazier on a stand flickered with a small fire that kept his
area comfortable.

“You’re
awake.”

The
voice startled him. Caelan lifted his head slightly, finding the effort
exhausting, and smiled at his cousin’s serious face. “Agel,” he said, his voice
sounding thin.

Agel
did not smile back. The sleeves of his robe were rolled up above the elbow, and
he was carrying a tray of items that he set upon a small table next to Caelan’s
cot. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and his blue eyes
were as cold as a winter lake.

In
silence he set out a roll of bandages, small crocks of ointment, and bronze
scissors.

Frowning,
Caelan tried to make sense of things. He had the feeling of time lost, and his
memories all seemed hazy and confused. “How did I get here?” he asked. “What
happened?”

“Sit
up, please,” Agel said coldly. “If you’re too weak, I’ll assist you.”

Caelan
levered himself slowly upright, finding himself absurdly weak. Pain flared
across his back, making him suck in a sharp breath, and with it came clear
recollection of his attempt to join the army, the soldiers who had robbed him
and speared him, leaving him for dead in a ditch.

Meanwhile
Agel had started undoing his dressings. Caelan tried to catch his cousin’s eye.

“I
remember,” he said. “The soldiers tried to kill me.”

Agel’s
hands went on working with gentle skill.

“How
did I get back?” Caelan asked.

Agel
said nothing.

Caelan
sighed, then winced. At once Agel stopped and reached for a damp sponge to soak
a place where the dressing had stuck to skin.

“I
asked you a question,” Caelan said.

Agel
evaded his gaze and made no answer.

Footsteps
outside the screen made both boys look up. Master Grigori entered with his
hands tucked austerely inside his sleeves. His white robe was stained with
blood splatters. His eyes held the cool blankness of
severance.

Agel
stepped aside, and in silence Master Grigori examined Caelan’s back. His
fingers were warm on Caelan’s skin. His probing was gentle, pausing at each
place when Caelan winced. His touch drew away the pain, leaving behind a gentle
tingle. A sense of well-being seeped through Caelan. He felt stronger already.

Finally
Master Grigori stepped back. “That will do,” he said, glancing at Agel. ‘The
wound is closed and will finish healing quickly in a day or two. Bandage him so
he doesn’t forget to protect the area, then arrange his release from the
infirmary.”