Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (19 page)

The look on the Knight General’s face gave a subtle shift to confusion before he smoothed his features. He plunked down the flagon next to Stefan. “I’m not hungry, sir. I just want to get on with the battle. Wipe these arrogant fools from the world.”

Stefan glanced out among his legions, noting the shift in Kasimir’s troops. He finished the last of his deer then wiped his hand on his tunic before responding to Garrick. “You know my policy, Garrick. No man under my command fights on an empty stomach. Should they fall, I will have them go the gods well fed. So, is it that you aren’t hungry or that you know you won’t die today?”

Knight General Garrick stiffened. “I’m always prepared to die.”

“Good. Then die.” Stefan drew his sword and struck.

Garrick barely managed a half–choked shriek.

Stefan’s blade, still vibrating, sliced through the Knight General’s neck with a faint hiss. Blood spurted in a black geyser. Mouth agape, Garrick’s head tumbled from his shoulders. The sword’s vibration abruptly died.

As the head spun through the air, the illusion shattered, and a transformation began. Elongated lupine jaws, rows of sharp fangs, a lolling tongue, and stiff, black fur replaced Garrick’s face.

The black–furred wraithwolf’s head landed on the ground with a thud.

C
HAPTER 23

A
tear trickling down his face, Stefan spat on the corpse. “Burn the body.” He gestured to Cadet Destin who stood with his mouth unhinged. “Now!”

Destin jumped before dropping his lance and running down the hill toward a line of torches at its base.

The clang of steel on steel followed by the cries and screams of the dying drew Stefan’s attention to his men. Surrounded, the legion Knight General Garrick had commanded struggled against the other Setian.

Divya
blades rose and fell in flashes. Kasimir had been able to arm every Dagodin loyal to their cause with the weapons.

The battle raged on. Shields parried and blocked. Swords stabbed and sliced. All moving in synchronous motions as they’d been taught. At this distance, to an untrained eye, the melee appeared more like chaos.

Behind the milling mass of Garrick’s forward infantry, transformations took place. Green armor rippled and fell to the ground. In place of men were dark–furred wraithwolves, many reaching seven feet. They stood on two legs, threw their snouts to the sky, and released blood–chilling howls. Stefan wished he had scorpios.

Mingled between the beasts and those who were mere men was another sort of creature. These flowed like black smoke made flesh. Blades darker than their billowing countenances sliced through the attacking soldiers as if their armor was wrought from paper instead of steel and iron. Stefan’s eyes narrowed.

Darkwraiths. Gods be good.

Quickly, he dashed the kinai wine from the flagons onto the wraithwolf’s corpse.
Where’s Destin with the blasted light?
He whirled to the sound of approaching feet and snatched the torch from Destin’s outstretched hand. As he tossed the firebrand at the remains, Stefan stepped back. A whoosh followed, and the black–furred body burst into flames. Heat spilled forth in a shimmering wave. Stefan shielded his face from the conflagration.

A trumpet blared—part of the plan he and Kasimir had devised. The dirge repeated.

The remaining Setian infantry fell back from the two types of shadelings and the soldiers who stood with them. A lull passed across the battlefield for the barest of seconds as the two opposing forces split apart, a space a few feet wide between them. Then a wraithwolf screeched—a skin crawling, high–pitched sound like metal squealing on metal—and its counterparts echoed the cry.

Stefan covered his nose and mouth from the stench of burnt hair and cooking flesh and peered toward the crimson–garbed Ashishin who moments before had stood unmoving and silent. They strode forward, shoulder to shoulder, in perfect, unnerving symmetry.

Gigantic balls of fire formed in front of them as if they’d ripped several suns from the sky. A moment later, the fireballs shot forward, blazing a trail as they flew to explode into the shadelings with a roar. At the same time, the earth came alive in a rolling wave of stone, tossing the beasts from their feet. The wails among them became plaintive cries.

Looking glass to his eye, Stefan licked his lips as the Ashishin, their faces furrowed with concentration, halted, gazes riveted on the traitors and the shadelings. He craved to reach out and open his Matersense as they Forged the essences around them, but he knew better. The very thought brought a shiver to his bones with the memory of the ethereal voices that seemed to call to him when he’d been in training so long ago.

A deafening rumble jarred him back to the present.

Where once there had been a stretch of plains occupied by the shade’s minions, there was now a gaping rent in the earth like a mouth full of jagged teeth. Screams ensued. Above the lip of the gash, both darkwraiths and wraithwolves appeared in empty air, claws and shrouded hands grappling for purchase. They crashed into an unseen barrier before falling from sight.

Lightning flashed down from the ashen sky into the hole. First one, then two, then an incandescent flurry of bolts scoured the pit. No thunder followed, but there came another roar, this one muted. Flames spurted up from the crevasse, licking at its lips in hungry tongues. The blaze lit up the morning, burning away the earlier gloom.

Screeches and shrieks resounded in a cacophony of despair and death. Pillars of greasy smoke rose into the air, only to be swept away by a sudden gust of wind that also increased the pitch and length of the wails. The gale carried a stench akin to piles of cooking, rotten meat.

Then, all was silent.

AWOOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOOOO!

The Erastonian war horns shattered the moment before a single Setian raised their sword in triumph or cheered. Out on the hilly plains, a full legion separated from the main enemy force. The obsidian line swept down the hill. Drums thudded in a beat to match the march of a few thousand booted feet.

Stefan’s legions turned their backs to the pyre blazing not far from them. A trumpet blared again. This time only once. The Setian answered the call by reforming into precise cohorts as they marched to meet the Erastonian threat. His new cavalry detached itself from the position it had maintained well to the rear and began to trot forward—four thousand sets of padded feet noiseless on the ground.

“Bring me my mount,” Stefan ordered without looking at Destin. “The new one.”

Slowly, the tempo of the drumbeats increased until they built into a fast–paced rhythm. The Erastonians disappeared below a dip in the land and moments later showed up at the crest. Stefan frowned at their numbers.

From this distance, they appeared to be advancing at a slow rate, but he knew better. Renowned for their stamina, the dark–skinned, sinewy Erastonians could run for miles nonstop, and under the influence of their
divya
armor, maintain a speed faster than any other race. These soldiers were doing just that, and from the ground they covered, they were charging in a dead sprint.
What was Guban playing at?

The Setian cavalry’s pace increased. The soldiers in the saddles carved into the shells of the beasts were a mere blot against the massive, humped forms that belied the speed at which they traveled.

A trumpet announced an advance.

Stefan’s infantry moved as one in a slow jog, the clink of heavy armor accompanying their movement. Behind them, the Ashishin stood, cloaks swirling about them with the wind that suddenly rose in a howl.

Destin arrived leading the mount by its chain reins. Short tail swinging, the dartan bared pointed teeth and uttered a pitiful mewl in the direction of Garrick’s charred remains. The beasts not only disliked shadelings but also possessed an ability to sense them. Its head swung around at a rumbling down on the battlefield.

Stefan followed its gaze to see the earth cave in on the death pit. Dirt and debris piled into the hole as if gigantic shovels dumped their contents. Wisps of smoke petered up followed by dusty bursts whenever a dirt mound spilled into the chasm.

Guarding against the possibility any shadeling survived, ten Ashishin stood sentinel near the hole while another twenty buried what was left of the slaughter. The remainder of their cohort followed behind Stefan’s infantry. To either side of the foot rode the dartan cavalry in long lines, having split their legion in two. The silver armor of Stefan’s Knight Generals and Knight Captains stood out as they crossed in front of the ranks, barking orders.

“Your mount, sir,” Destin said, the reins held out in a shaky hand, sweat trickling down his face, his eyes wide as he regarded the dartan.

Stefan understood the man’s fear. The dartan was twenty–two hands tall and its snake–like neck swung from side to side as it sniffed the air. It tried to take a step toward the wraithwolf’s corpse, the smell of fresh meat no doubt drawing the beast. When Destin tugged on the reins to draw it back, the dartan showed its teeth and nipped at his hand. The Cadet snatched his arm away.

“I’ll take it from here.” Stefan took the reins and yanked them tight against the beast’s jaws.

The dartan mewled once more and straightened.

“T–thank you, sir.”

Stefan regarded the young man who averted his eyes. He remembered when he was young like Cadet Destin, aspiring to be greater than the sum of his parts with dreams of the glory of battle. Those dreams died during a campaign when he was one of the few who’d survived their foray into Banai lands. It had been their first encounter in Nerian’s plan to build an empire. Here he was, years later, about to watch more men die.
Death’s always simple. We spend our entire lives dying.
Wasn’t that what King Nerian always said? Stefan clenched his fist at the thought of his former friend and King.

“Thank you, Cadet Destin.” Stefan masked the strain of his voice for the Cadet’s sake. “You have done well.”

Destin gave a timid smile and bowed.

Reins in hand, Stefan used the handholds carved into the sides of the dartan’s shell to climb up and slipped onto the seat cut into the shell. His insides twisting in knots, he flapped the chains and headed toward his army.

As he rode,
the Disciplines
came to mind
. Demand discipline by showing mastery of self. Demand they overcome after you prevail. Demand bravery by overcoming your fear. Demand strength by conquering your weakness.

Back straight and head held high as he schooled himself to calm, he jerked the beast into a gallop. The day was not yet done. There might yet be more death.

C
HAPTER 24

S
tefan caught up to his soldiers as they reached the hilltop overlooking the plains where the Erastonian army massed. Armor clinked and leather creaked as men saluted, their gazes following his path between their ranks. He tugged on his reins, bringing the dartan to a sharp halt ahead of the rest of the army and next to Knight General Kasimir.

“Sir.” Kasimir gave a slight dip of his head. “Did he—”

“He’s gone.” Stefan sighed, fighting against the heaviness in his heart. They’d both lost a friend. “He’s been dead ever since the massacre in Everland.”

Expression grim and eyes watery, Kasimir nodded.

“Cavalry ready?” Stefan asked. He would show no more remorse in what he’d been forced to do. Those creatures were no longer his men.

“As ready as they’ll ever be.” Kasimir rapped a gauntleted fist on his dartan’s shell.

“Good.”

Several thousand feet and a few low hills ahead of the main force, the Erastonian cohort that had broken off stood in a motionless black snake of leather–armored men. The drums and horns stopped.

“You think they’ll parley?”

Stefan grunted. “Their commander agreed to this. His example of good faith was the information on Garrick or rather, the shadelings that replaced Garrick and the others.”

“Do you trust him? He might have told you anything to escape death.”

“He didn’t lie about Garrick, did he?”

“He wasn’t doing us any favors,” Kasimir said. “With the shadelings dead, their army won’t have to face them in addition to us. Worse, by watching our skirmish, he no doubt realizes how many Matii we possess. We—”

“I made an agreement with the man.”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but maybe we should have waited on killing the shadelings. Combined with our Ashishin—”

“No matter how dire things appear, I won’t turn to the shade for help, Kasimir. The shade is to be destroyed, period.”

Kasimir hesitated for a moment. “But we could have turned on the shadelings afterward. I mean, we’re using Ashishin and Harnan now. Think of it the same way. The creatures would be another tool for us to use and discard. If what Guban said is true, and the King’s with them, we could end this war or at least change the outcome.”

Stefan allowed the Knight General’s words to wash over him, resisting the urge to give in to his anger. “I’m not Nerian,” he said softly.”I won’t throw away my honor or turn to the shade. You don’t see the bigger picture, Kasimir. Who knows what adjustments they made to our small victory, but seeing the dartans will give them pause. Doubt is what we need.”

“More reason to use every advantage,” Kasimir implored, his dark skin shiny with the sheen of sweat.

Jaw grinding, Stefan glared at Kasimir until the Knight General averted his eyes.

“Fine. I understand not using the shadelings, but falling to the Erastonian horde may be just as bad. Towns littered with dead and slavery or worse for those they don’t kill.”

“At this point, I would take slavery.” Stefan grimaced. “Kas, I need them to listen and come to an agreement. They have as much at stake as we do, because there’s no bargaining with the shade. Our object here is to save as many Setian as possible. Remember that. People are going to die, lose their souls, a great many of them, if Nerian isn’t stopped.”

“Are any less going to die if we don’t stop the Erastonians?”

“Which would you rather, Kasimir?” Stefan arched an eyebrow. “To be mired in the darkness the shade brings or to be under Erastonian rule?”

“Neither.”

“Exactly, but those are our choices right now, unless we do it this way.”

“Surely the Granadian Tribunal won’t allow Nerian’s madness to continue?”

“They haven’t done enough so far,” Stefan said.

“I beg to differ.” High Shin Clarice’s voice came from a few steps behind them. Silver sleeves in stark contrast to the crimson of her robes, the dark–haired woman, rode up on a dartan.

Stefan scowled. “Disagree all you want, but you endorsed Nerian. I remember the boasts of him being the first Ostanian allowed in your ranks in five hundred years. What did it accomplish? He got his hands on the Chronicles.”

“You speak as if you never supported him,” she said, voice calm.

“That ended a long time ago.”

The High Ashishin shrugged. “Not soon enough apparently. People tend to remember the worst of a person. For the Tribunal, it is bringing him among us. For you, the world will recall the wars you fought and won in his name.” She glanced out toward the Erastonians. “And for the ones you lost.”

“My intentions were always pure, High Shin Clarice.” Stefan practically growled the words. “Given a choice to fight or fall to one of the other kingdoms or to the shade, I chose to lead my people’s survival. I hope you never face a similar choice.”

“Survival? Is that what you call it now?” Clarice smiled, showing perfect teeth. “Not once did you revel in the glory of battle? The pride of conquering all before you for his King? I seem to remember a name. Stefan the Steadfast, Stefan the Undefeated, wasn’t it? A man so loyal to Nerian’s ideals he could not be swayed either on or off the field.”

Kasimir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

“He’s dead,” Stefan said, making his tone as icy as his expression.

“Good,” Clarice replied, golden flecks flitting across the whites of her eyes. “He must remain so if your men and those you hold dear in Seti are to survive all this.”

“Let me worry about who I am.” Stefan turned from her to peer down at the Erastonians once more. “Are your Ashishin ready?”

“I will be the only one accompanying you.”

Drawing his brows together in a tight frown, Stefan faced her. “Against them? Even after the way they defeated Nerian’s Matii. Why—”

“Exactly.
Nerian’s Matii.
Not the Tribunal’s. Nerian is no fool. He sent his weakest, many of them not fully trained. He wanted those legions to fail, to die. A ploy so the remaining kingdoms continue to back him against this ‘unstoppable’ force. Sometimes, men only act when they are threatened. Often, others must see you deliver a victory for them to fall in line.
Demand they overcome after you prevail
.”

“
The Disciplines
,” Stefan whispered.

“Yes. Almost everyone is dancing to Nerian’s tune, including you.”

“I take it you discovered what he’s after?”

“We have our suspicions, but we’re not sure.”

Stefan barked a laugh. “So many years spent ‘enlightening’ the masses yet you lack answers to what the man does.”

“That is why we are here, why we agreed to help you in this endeavor. The Erastonians seem to know why Nerian turned to the shade and how. One thing is certain. All of Ostania will fall and feed the shade if he is not stopped.”

“Yes, while Granadia hides behind its precious Vallum of Light, protected from the shade’s reach.” Stefan’s lip curled. “Instead of crushing Nerian, his shadelings,
and
these Erastonians, you bide your time while my people die.”

“Did we not help you ally with the Harnan and bring you a victory? Until your Councils agree to our requests, our help ended there.”

Kasimir growled under his breath, his dark face growing darker. He opened his mouth to speak.

A look from Stefan stopped him. Inhaling deeply, Stefan deliberately moved his own hand away from his sword hilt. “You’ll change your mind if whatever shadelings Nerian musters break through the Vallum.”

“That,” Clarice said with an air of finality, “will never happen. It will take more than shadelings to breach the Vallum.”

“For your sake, I hope they don’t. Come, Kasimir.” Stefan flapped his reins, sending his dartan down the hill.

Stefan didn’t want to admit it to himself, but Clarice was right. He could think of no way for the King to breach the Vallum of Light. On the other end, the Erastonians were steadily gobbling up Ostanian lands. Nerian was fighting a battle on two fronts and losing badly.
So why do I feel like there’s something I’m not seeing?

He touched the hilt of his sword for a sense of comfort. Except for that night in Benez, the
divya
had done nothing more over the years than grant him its speed and strength.
Was it really the key to what Nerian wanted to achieve?

Gritting his teeth, Stefan urged his dartan on, the beast flitting across the faded brown grasses and empty fields in a gait so smooth it felt as if he flew. If not for the thoughts swirling through his mind, he would have thrown his head back and enjoyed the cooling breeze.

Ahead, the Erastonians shifted, three of them separating from the smaller force, black armor glinting in the meager sunlight struggling through the thunderheads above. The silence accompanying them was more disconcerting than if the drums and horns continued to beat and bray.

Stefan slowed, allowing Kasimir and High Shin Clarice to draw abreast of him. Kasimir simply nodded, while Clarice’s eyes blazed. Stefan smirked. High Ashishin had a habit of thinking they decided who should move and when. While that held true most of the time, he intended to deny the woman any satisfaction. He needed her angry enough to do her part.

A High Ashishin’s power was something to fear, but it was no different to facing a skilled swordsman in battle. He was wise to be afraid of either, but he could never let the emotion show.
Showing fear, not fear itself, is a weakness. Fragility leads to death.
He had no immediate plans to die. Not even on a full stomach.

As they drew closer to the three Erastonians, Stefan frowned.

The men no longer wore their oversized helmets. Their pale, almost corpse–white faces contrasted immensely with their armor. Black, wooly locks wrapped their heads. Matching beards coiled beneath their chins. One stood ahead of the others, the large spaulder on one shoulder carved in the shape of a lion’s head marking him as their King.

Behind him was Guban. Guban’s gaze shifted from the King to one of the other men. Not once did he meet Stefan’s eyes.

Something wasn’t quite right. “You may get to prove how strong High Shin are after all, Clarice.” Stefan eased his hand toward his sword.

Black leather rippling around his wide form, the King took a step back. The Erastonian soldier on his left strode forward, drew a short sword, and promptly slit his own throat. Blood spurted to the ground as he dropped to his knees, bent his back, and bowed in supplication facing the Setian.

A moment later, High Shin Clarice hissed. “I’m afraid I will be of little help. That one sacrificed himself so he could Warp the Mater around us. He has prevented me from Forging.”