Veil of Shadows (2 page)

It wasn’t a sword. She didn’t need to see it to know that—long swords weren’t exactly the weapon of choice. Pulsars were—handheld weapons that delivered a pulsating blast that could either disable or kill. But all of her soldiers carried blades and they could use them if they had to.

Somehow, Syn suspected this man would prefer the blade over the pulsar he had strapped to his thigh.

The most arresting feature about this man wasn’t his weapons, or his face, or the way he seemed to take in everything with one quick, trained glance. It wasn’t even the patch he wore over his left eye, although her gaze did linger there a minute. She imagined his lack of vision on that side didn’t slow him down one bit.

No, the most arresting thing about him was the way he carried himself.

He kept to the back of the group, and if she didn’t know better, she might have mistaken him for one of her own. Except for the threadbare clothes and noted lack of cavinir, the flexible body armor most of the rebels wore, he blended in perfectly with her troops. Ready and aware, fully prepared for danger even this close to the camp.

It made her wonder how rough the journey from Sacril had been. It also reminded her that she had a job to do, and she forced herself to look away. It may be great fun to briefly ogle one of the more interesting men to enter through their gates. But doing so didn’t get the job done.

Right now, she needed to get ready to speak with the commander, she needed to speak with the men who’d accompanied the refugees and then she had to speak with the refugees themselves. And that was going to be such fun.

Sighing, she flicked a hand through her short, dark hair. “At least this is the last time.”

She hoped.

The Roinan territory was just too dangerous now. The refugee camps had been decimated over the past few weeks. Most of the refugees entering through the main gate didn’t realize it, but in a couple of days, they were going to be on an eastbound convoy. Kalen was evacuating the territory. Civilians wouldn’t be forced to leave, but they couldn’t remain in the camp, and the only people getting an escort were those on the convoy.

If they didn’t join the convoy, they were on their own.

Once these refugees were out of here, the rebel army would focus on the demon infestation and
only
on the demon infestation. Splitting their time and energy between helping the refugees and culling the demons had proven too dangerous. They were losing lives, they were losing ground and they were losing both too fast.

It had to stop. Considering their limited resources, they had to focus on the threat presented by the demons. It was the only logical choice.

But somehow, Syn suspected these men and women weren’t going to be pleased with logic.

It was organized chaos.

There was no other way to describe it. Xan stood on the sidelines, watching as the soldiers herded every last refugee into a long, low-ceilinged building.

Two men stood at the door, questioning each person that entered.

“Any combat experience? No? Sit on the right. Yes? Sit on the left. That’s all you need to do for now.”

Any and all questions were ignored. But that didn’t keep the refugees from asking. The line moved interminably slowly. Xan kept a light hand on one of the straps that held his pack in place, the other on the shorter blade at his waist. He had dealt with enough thieves over the past few months to know that none of them was above robbing people blind right under the noses of the only law this part of the world had.

From all reports, this forsaken territory had been cut adrift, left to falter or thrive on its own as the rest of the world recovered.

Well, perhaps the Roinan territory was not completely on its own. The outside still took in refugees. Xan had heard they even had “programs” designed to help the refugees integrate into life outside a war zone. Motivated by guilt, perhaps. It might be the only way they could allay the guilt they carried for allowing these people to fight a war that should have been fought by all.

At
one
time, that war had been fought by all.

The Gates—bridges that connected an alien world to this one—were controlled by Anqar and had allowed slavers to raid this world. And the magic needed to control them was one wielded by Anqarians—by their Warlords and Sirvani.

For centuries untold, Anqar had preyed on this world, kidnapping women and using it as their breeding ground, The Anqarian Warlords needed women with strong, talented blood—preferably witches—to keep their race strong, and fewer and fewer women were being born to their people. When the time came for them to seek a bride, they looked across the Gates to this world . . . and took one by force.

But then, over time, for reasons none truly understood, the Gates started to falter. And as the Gates fell, the raids across the world became more infrequent, until finally, only one strong Gate remained.

The Roinan Gate.

When that happened, the world outside of the Roinan territory seemed content to pretend that everything was just as fine as could be.

For some time, only Kalen Brenner and his army of rebels stood between the one remaining Gate and the rest of Ishtan. The rest of Ishtan seemed quite content to let it remain so.

But they took in the refugees who couldn’t fight.

Sometimes, they even sent back supplies.

When they remembered.

Xan finally reached the door and met the gaze of the soldier closest to him. The man looked Xan over from head to toe and then a smile of camaraderie lit his face. “I don’t think I need to ask if you have combat experience, do I?”

Xan just shrugged.

“You do have combat experience, right?”

He gave a curt nod and was waved inside. He didn’t sit. He took up a position with his back against the wall. He wasn’t the only one. A handful of others were doing the same, guarding their backs, even now, when they were in the one safehold this territory had. One by one, each of them met his gaze. A quick glance, a nod, and then they all resumed their survey of the crowd.

Xan settled in beside them and started his own survey. It was a sorry lot of people, that was for certain.

As more and more people packed in, he gripped his blade tighter.

What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

It was standing-room only. Close to three hundred, she figured. Fortunately, a fifth of them were soldiers who’d made the decision to return east. They’d served at Sacril, one of the rebel outposts, and when Kalen made the decision to call them back, most of them had decided they’d just as soon join the convoy. It would be added protection.

Syn would be glad when this was over. She would be glad when she could give her troops a clear, direct focus—the demons. She would be glad when she no longer had to balance and juggle numbers to figure out how to provide the safety the refugees needed without compromising the safety of the camp and without cutting back on the efforts to secure more of their land.

In short, she would be glad when this day was over.

It was hard enough maintaining order in the postwar chaos, but dealing with a bunch of lost and scared civilians had her wishing for a dark, quiet room, a hot bath and a big, bottomless glass of frostwine.

Later, she could get the dark, quiet room and probably even the hot bath. She needed that hot bath, too. If nothing else, it might ease the raw ache of cold settled inside her. She was always cold these days, always chilled. Nothing helped for long.

The frostwine could do a decent job of warding the cold off for a while, especially if she could have it with the bath. But that particular luxury was one she didn’t have. One she probably wouldn’t have again for years to come. Frostwine, like so many other luxuries, was something that was lost to them. Just like the world she’d almost forgotten—a world that wasn’t dominated solely by war.

For now,
she told herself.
For now
. . .
Someday, you’ll be able to start rebuilding that world. After you make it safe again.

She followed along behind Bron and Kenner, letting them clear the way while she took in the last group of refugees. The last . . . It was hard to even consider that idea. For as long as she’d been here, there had been refugees arriving at the camp. Most had come seeking to serve in the army, but over the past year or so, that number had slowed to a trickle. Too often now, those arriving at the camp had requests for “security” while the refugees tried to rebuild. Or food. Shelter for a few nights. Aid in rebuilding their homes.

The rebel army’s resources were stretched thin as it was, and these people wanted Kalen to give them yet more.

Those with half a brain had abandoned this area years earlier. It seemed as though the only ones who remained were those in the base camp—the rebel army. Except that was far from the truth. Every week brought in more refugees, many of them so gaunt and thin, it hurt to even look upon them.

She didn’t need to ask their stories.

She already knew.

They fled to the mountains, fled to the north, to the south. They couldn’t go east—this was their home. Going east, to them, seemed too permanent, some kind of unspoken acknowledgment they had given up. They had to stay. They wanted to rebuild. They just needed some help . . .

That was the story.

In actuality, they needed their heads examined.

It would be years before these mountains were completely safe again. Maybe longer.

And the typical soul just wasn’t equipped to fight the demons that crept out in the night. So they ended up at the different outposts, or right here at the base camp, begging and pleading for help that the army couldn’t keep giving.

Something had to change.

She knew Kalen had made a wise decision, but that knowledge didn’t make her job any easier.

With her men at her back, Syn forged her way to the front of the hall. Bron and Kenner took their respective places on either side of the dais as she strode up the steps, the soles of her boots making deliberate thuds on the wooden floor.

With every step, she felt more and more eyes cut her way. Slowly, the dull roar of voices faded down to a muted murmur as one by one, row by row, the refugees took note of her.

She was here to make an impact. She stood a good head shorter than most of the people in the room and although she was strong, she knew she didn’t look it.

But Syn knew that attitude made all the difference.

And attitude, she had in spades.

She stopped in the middle of the dais and linked her hands behind her back. It was loud, people whispering to one another, looking all around, staring at Bron and Kenner with wide eyes, and then up at her with confusion.

“My name is Laisyn Caar. Around the camp, I’m known as Captain. My superiors call me Syn.” She lifted her voice, knowing it would carry through the door and even out into the common area in front of the west hall. Most of the talkers fell silent.

“Let me make a few things clear right up front.” Now just a few were whispering.

One of them was a woman sitting next to the man who’d caught her eye. She was leaning over him, all but climbing into his arms trying to get his attention. Syn dropped off the dais, talking as she went.

“This is a military base. It may not be recognized as such to those out in the rest of the world. But that is how we see it. That is how we run it.” She took her time, making her way up the aisle, occasionally looking at some of those sitting down and watching. As she passed, those still whispering fell silent.

All save one.

She drew her culn from her belt and twisted it. Immediately, the metal baton expanded to three times its size. It was now nearly as long as she was tall, and solid.

She used it to tap the shoulder of the only person still talking.

“And that means, when I am talking, every last one of you will shut up.”