Shadow War - Deborah Chester [122]
“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.