Shadow War (37 page)

Caelan didn’t
understand at first. He stumbled, found himself jerked up, and broke out in a
cold sweat. One of them slammed him against the wall, and he managed to brace
himself there.

“What?” he asked
in bewilderment, not certain he had heard right.

“Gault, but you
stink,” one of them said, wrinkling his nose.

“He’ll be crawling
with lice. Watch him,” another warned.

“Arena scum—”

“No, no, Zoma,” a
man said. “He’s a champion. I won money on you, Giant. But you’ll have to
change your ways now.”

Caelan still
couldn’t believe it, although slowly comprehension was beginning to sink in. He
looked at their faces, seeing neither friendliness nor condemnation. “I’m not
going to be beheaded?”

They laughed in a
roar that made his head ring.

“He’s out of his
wits,” Zoma said. “Move on. The sergeant will cut you down to size soon enough.”

Gathering him up,
they shoved him onward, taking him out of the dungeons and out across the
grounds toward the barracks. It was night, and very cold. Shivering and still
wet, Caelan stumbled along as though in a dream. If he was to live, he found he
could not let himself believe it yet. He was afraid it might vanish like ashes
blowing through his fingers. It could be another cruel joke, a final measure of
hope meted out to him before the axe fell. But with every step he began to
believe despite his caution.

“Have I been
pardoned?” he finally asked.

“From what?” Zoma
asked, giving him another shove. “Is this man accused of any crimes?”

“No official
charges.”

“No, just that he
stinks.”

“You stink,” Zoma
said with a smirk. “Your punishment is a bath and severe scrubbing. If I catch
any of your vermin, I’ll peel your skull.”

Caelan grinned. He
straightened, his legs suddenly finding strength. He was to be a soldier, he
realized. After all these years, after all this struggle, it was finally coming
true. He could not be a soldier unless he was free. No slaves served in the
army.

His heart filled
up fast, ready to burst with intense happiness. Right then none of his aches
mattered. He went staggering across the immense parade ground, managing to keep
up with their long strides. He couldn’t stop grinning, not even when they
stripped him naked and threw him bodily into a trough of icy water.

“Get clean,” he
was told.

Shivering and
sputtering, he scrubbed until his hide felt raw. Then, wrapping himself in a
blanket, he dashed indoors only to find himself surrounded by a circle of
brawny men.

Every face looked
hostile. Not a smile of welcome flickered from one of them. A set of clothing
came hurtling through the air and smacked him in the face.

He caught it
clumsily, still unable to raise his hands higher than his elbows.

“Get dressed,” he
was told.

Someone else
kicked a bucket his way. “The floor is dirty, slave. Scrub it.”

Caelan stood there
his hopes and dreams dying away while they laughed in open scorn and turned
their backs on him.

When he didn’t
move, Zoma came over and gave him a hard shove that nearly overbalanced him. “Are
you deaf? You heard the sergeant. Get to scrubbing.”

“But I—I thought—”

“You thought what?”
Zoma asked him scathingly.

There was no
answer. Caelan’s protest died in his throat. He looked down, his face hot, his
hands clumsy with the clothing.

Zoma shoved him
again, sending him stumbling against the empty bucket. It fell over with a
clatter. “Get to work! Or you’ll stay up all night, scrubbing in the dark.”

When the morning
bugles sounded, Caelan awakened with a start, forgetting at first where he was.
Then the door to the barracks banged open, and an officer came striding in.

“Attention!”
bawled the barracks sergeant, looking as startled as any of them.

The soldiers
scrambled from their bunks and hastily assembled themselves in a line. Wearing
only their nethers, their hairy chests pimpled with cold, their hair standing
on end, and their jaws unshaved, they looked a bleary lot.

Caelan, who had
slept on the floor in the uncaring slumber of exhaustion, climbed to his feet
also but stood slightly apart from the others. The homespun tunic they’d given
him was ridiculously small, and his wrists dangled from the sleeves like an
overgrown boy’s. In the clear early light his arms showed their bruises and
shackle sores plainly. His shoulders still ached, but he could move his arms in
a near-normal range of motion again.
Fast healer,
he thought derisively
to himself.
Hurry up and recover so you can take the next round of abuse.

The officer’s gaze
swept around the barrack like a cold northern wind and came to rest on Caelan. “Is
this the man?”

The sergeant
stepped forward smartly. “New recruit, yes, sir.”

The officer looked
Caelan up and down, his eyes missing nothing, not even the pail of dirty scrub
water with the brush floating on top of the scum.

His mouth
tightened. “In my day, sergeant, the recruits were set to polishing armor as
part of their initiation. Floors don’t seem quite in keeping with the dignity
of the Imperial Guard, do they?”

The sergeant’s
face stayed as blank as the wall. “No, sir.”

“Present the men
for inspection by second bugle.”

The sergeant’s
fist slammed against his left shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

The officer
pointed at Caelan. “You, come with me.”

Caelan stepped
forward warily and walked past the silent row of men. He no longer knew what to
think. Their cruelty in letting him believe he was still a slave stoked his
growing resentment. He remembered the brutality of the soldiers he had met as a
boy and how they had robbed him on the road like common brigands. These men
were no better, and as guardsmen, they were the elite of the emperor’s fighting
forces. He glanced at their stoic faces as he walked past and wondered how many
more unpleasant surprises they had in store for him.

Outside, the air
was frosty and still. Caelan’s breath streamed about his face as he looked
around. A small cluster of men in crimson cloaks and armor stood waiting.

“Get it done
quickly, Sergeant Baiter,” the officer said to a short, burly individual who
saluted.

The officer walked
away without another glance at Caelan.

Frowning, Caelan
stared at the others. “What am I—”

“Silence!” the
burly sergeant snapped at him. “Fall in.”

The other two
guardsmen stepped behind Caelan, and he had no choice but to follow Baiter down
the long row of barracks to a sort of courtyard formed in the angle between the
last barracks and the stables. Paved with flat stones, the area held a set of
stocks, a whipping post, a fountain stilled beneath a skim of ice, and a
smithy.

It was to the last
that Caelan was taken.

He stepped into
the open-sided hut, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling. The smith,
muscular and sweating, already had his bellows going and a fire burning in his
forge. The air in the hut smelled of charred hair, hot metal, and ash. Caelan
suddenly suspected what was coming. He tensed, swallowing hard, and made his
mind a blank.

Sergeant Baiter
exchanged a brief word with the smith, then snapped his fingers at Caelan. “He
will remove your slave chain.”

Caelan’s throat
was too full and tight to answer. He nodded silently, his eyes full of what he
could not say.

“Come o’er,” the
smith said. Bearded and taciturn, he pointed at an anvil.

Caelan stepped
over to it.

“Show us, then,”
the smith commanded.

Caelan fished out
the golden chain around his throat. The smith’s blackened hand fingered it.

“Pity to break
that,” he said, but pointed again at the anvil. “Lay yer head to it. Hold
still, else the chisel’ll go through yer throat ‘stead of next it.”

Swallowing, Caelan
felt tremors go through him. His emotions were threatening to overwhelm him,
and almost savagely he forced them down. He must not think. He must not feel.
If he was to be freed, then let it be done. Until the chain was taken off his
throat, he would believe in nothing.

Bending over, he
pressed the side of his face to the cold, hard surface of the steel anvil. The
smith moved Caelan’s head so he could loop the slight amount of slack in the
chain over the narrow, pointed end of the anvil. It was an uncomfortable
position, but Caelan remembered the smith’s warning and held himself absolutely
still, hardly even breathing.

The smith took his
time. He positioned the chisel on the links of the chain. It was an intricate
piece of work, thick and very fine, fashioned of many strands braided together.
Shifting the chisel a bit, the smith pressed the flat side of it against Caelan’s
jaw.

He suppressed a
shiver and closed his eyes as the smith raised his hammer.

There came a
swift, sure bang as hammer struck chisel with one blow. The chain broke and
fell to the ground.

Caelan opened his
eyes and slowly lifted himself. The smith bent and picked up the chain.

Its golden length
caught the strengthening sunlight and gleamed richly against the man’s dirty
fingers. He cupped it in his palm, making a shimmering heap of it, and handed
it to Caelan.

“Keep it,” he said
with a sudden grin through his beard. “To remind yourself of when times was
harder.”

Slowly Caelan’s
fingers closed around the chain. He had a lump in his throat. After all these
years, he thought he would feel something when the day of release came. He
expected to be different, transformed. Instead, everything seemed ordinary and
unchanged. It was almost disappointing.

“Take off your
tunic,” Baiter said. “Let’s see if you’ve got any ownership brands.”

Caelan wanted to
hesitate, but he had too much pride before these men of war. He would exhibit
no cowardice before them.

Swiftly he pulled
off the small tunic and let it dangle from one hand. At the sight of his deep,
muscular chest, broad shoulders, and sun-bronzed skin, the sergeant’s eyes
widened slightly.

The smith emitted
a low whistle. “Aye, could play hammer to anvil all day and never tire, with
those arms.”

He reached out for
the leather thong holding Caelan’s amulet pouch. “What’s this?”

Quicker than
thought, Caelan gripped his wrist and held it with crushing strength. Anger
blazed in him. “Don’t touch that.”

The smith’s eyes
grew round. “Sure,” he said mildly.

Caelan released
him, shoving him slightly backward. “It has nothing to do with this.”

The smith held up
both hands in a placating manner. “No offense to you.”

“Here’s a rower’s
brand,” Baiter said from behind Caelan.

Caelan knew
exactly where it was; he would never forget the day the iron had been stamped
into the flesh over his right shoulder blade, burning that small circle into
his hide.

“Easy,” the smith
said. “Any others? Any fancy, foreign marks with them curlicues an’ such?”

“No.”

“Easy.”

The sergeant
stepped around to face Caelan. His face was pudgy and youthful despite the age
in his eyes. With a frown, he said, “To serve in the army, all ownership marks
have to be canceled. You understand?”

Caelan’s tongue
seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Yes.”

“Some slaves, when
they’re manumitted, they keep their tunics on the rest of their lives, so
nothing will show, and they don’t go through with crossing out the brand. A few
runaway slaves pay smiths to cross out their brands, but such won’t have the
imperial mark at the edge to show it’s official. Do you see?”

“Yes.”

“In the army, you
don’t have any choice. I can see plenty of stripes on your back. You’re hard to
handle, are you?”

Caelan almost
smiled; then suddenly it did not seem funny. “Sometimes.”

“Sure. All
fighters are, if they’re worth anything. I’ve seen you in the arena. Spirited.
Means you’re spirited out of the ring too.”

Caelan wasn’t
feeling very spirited just then. He was praying for courage.

“In the army, men
are stripped. Men are inspected. Men are flogged. Men sometimes have to dig
ditches to entrench a camp or lay siege. You strip down with an uncanceled
brand on your back, and you could find yourself turned in as a runaway. You
see?”

“I understand.”

The sergeant went
on staring at him hard, waiting.

Caelan managed to
nod. “Go ahead.”

“Good man.”
Stepping back, Baiter signaled to the other two soldiers. “Come and hold him.”

“No,” Caelan said.
“There’s no need.”

The smith, who had
gone back to his bellows, glanced over his shoulder. “You can’t stand still
enough. You’ll blur it when you jerk, and it’ll make a bad sore.”

“I’ll stand still,”
Caelan said grimly. “I don’t want to be held.”

The soldiers’ eyes
held doubt, but when the sergeant shrugged, they backed off.

Caelan walked over
to the anvil, drawing in deep breaths as he cleared his mind. It had to be
done, he told himself. Freedom had to be absolute. He wanted no ownership marks
left on him. He wanted no arguments in the future with overzealous bounty
hunters coming after him by mistake.

Focusing, he
pulled his mind into
severance,
entering the coldness of detachment. He
gripped either side of the anvil and braced his feet apart, trying not to
listen to the rattle of the irons or the hot sizzle of the fire.

His heart was
racing, and his knees felt weak. He almost wished he had agreed to let the men
hold him down. He could yell then and kick, knowing that their strength would
be greater than his.

But he dared not
have their grip on him. Because he was likely to flow into
sevaisin
, and
if he joined with them or with the fiery metal at such a vulnerable moment, he
might never return to himself.