Shadow War - Deborah Chester [137]
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.
Caelan found himself wishing for an army to command. If only he could wing his thoughts to the imperial troops camped and deployed elsewhere in the empire. If only he could bend the mysterious forces of time and distance to his will, and bring them here—instantly.
He would have given his soul right then to be able to turn the tables on these brutes and crush them. But the main army was far away, and only the Imperial Guard was stationed here. Now that esteemed fighting force lay massacred.
Stupid, Caelan thought, the word beating in his temples like his pulse. Stupid. Stupid.
But he was not the Lord Commander of the armies. He was not the one responsible for the deployment of troops.
He was not the one who had declined to bring extra protection back to the capital city.
In the distance the screaming of men and women told Caelan of more horrors. He resisted the urge to look back, but the empress stopped and stared over her shoulder.
“The servants,” she whispered in anguish. “The courtiers. My ladies—”
“Don’t,” he told her, tugging at her hand. “Hurry.”
It was a long way around the perimeter of the walls. The farther they went, the more exposed and vulnerable Caelan felt. The edges of his consciousness sensed dangers lurking in the darkness around him, dangers not of this world, dangers he could not fight with sword and strength. Dry-mouthed, Caelan tried to shut off his own