Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (13 page)

C
HAPTER 14

S
tefan snapped his head around to where he’d last seen the Knight General, but Cerny was no longer there. A cheer drew his attention back to the arena. The gates slid up, a hole the size and shape of a doorway appeared in the shield, and Cerny stepped through.

At the same moment, Nerian released his Warping. The King took in several heavy breaths.

In the arena, the two Raijin glanced around. The wounded one reached down and twisted his leg into place. A yell escaped his lips. Moments passed as his chest heaved then he stood and flexed his leg.

Stefan expected Cerny to press the advantage, but the Knight General didn’t. A devilish smile on his face, green uniform pristine with its three golden knots standing out chest–high, he strolled toward the Raijin.

A hush fell over the amphitheater.

The two Raijin took in Cerny’s leisurely approach before nodding to each other and splitting apart. The entire scene felt surreal to Stefan as the shield not only prevented anyone from entering or leaving, but it also kept in all sound. In the silence, he heard his and King Nerian’s breathing.

There was a sudden blur of movement as both the assassins thrust their hands in Cerny’s direction. Bars of solid white light bright enough to sear one’s vision shot across the distance. A solid slab of earth grew up from the ground in front of Cerny. The bars of light struck it and sent dirt and rock showering into the air.

The earth within the arena heaved and rolled in a wave toward the Raijin. Both men dived out of its path. It slammed into the edge of the shield with an impact that shook the amphitheater.

The crowd cheered. Stefan blocked them out as he watched.

When the two assassins gained their feet, they looked around frantically then their gazes focused on the sky for a moment. Stefan shook his head as they now realized their plight.

They sprinted, throwing their hands out, streaks of lightning and light bars shooting out from them toward Cerny as they attempted to overwhelm him. Cerny simply stopped. The constant protection of earth rose around him, blocking whatever they did. The Raijin continued firing, their attacks growing from streaking bars and bolts to small balls as their power waned.

Then, the earthen shield broke apart into a thousand pieces. As it did so, several balls of incandescent light shot through. Cerny raised a hand. Something flashed into shape around his arm, almost like armor, and he swatted the balls away.

A breath hissed from Stefan’s lips. He did not recognize any of the essences Cerny had used to block the attack. For a moment, he thought he spotted slight mixes of shade among them.

In the same instant, the pieces of earth, still floating, shot toward the Raijin like a thousand arrows. The men had no time to react. Stone and earth ripped through their bodies. Blood spattered the sides of the dome behind them. In silence, they fell to the ground dead.

Cerny strode from the arena.

“And as simple as that, the Raijin fall,” King Nerian said, a satisfied smile on his face. “Proof they can be defeated.”

The crowd’s jubilation rose to a crescendo.

“Stefan.” Nerian’s voice dropped several notches. “Now you know one of the reasons Cerny will take your place if you refuse to lead the men.” The King kept his gaze fixed on the people. “He does not hesitate to kill.”

“I would ask what of the Tribunal’s response, but now I understand why you wanted me to be here and why you wanted this as a public display.”

“Oh?” Nerian’s amused expression didn’t change. “I expected nothing less, but go ahead and tell me.”

“The word will get out about what happened here,” Stefan said. “Killing two Rajin this easily will make the Tribunal plan before risking open war. You showed them a strength they didn’t anticipate.”

“Yes,” the King agreed. “I have also given you time to consider the decision before you.” He no longer smiled. “It has been a pleasure spending time with you again, despite all this … but I have kept you long enough. Besides,” the King’s gaze shifted to the steps above them, “the High Council has been clamoring for my attention. The time has come for me to reveal some of my plans to them.”

A seemingly heated debate was taking place between several members of the Council. Normally it was Stefan who handled such issues before presenting the Council’s concerns to the King, but because he’d kept himself apart since returning and with his absence on the campaigns, the role apparently now belonged to Cerny. The Knight General stood to one side having a conversation with Renaida and Senden. By their gestures and faces, neither of the older men were pleased. Every so often, they peered toward the King and Stefan.

“Send my well wishes to Thania and the children,” the King said. “I look forward to hearing from you soon. Now, go spend some quality time with your family.”

“I will and you shall. Until then, sire.” Stefan bowed from the waist and left.

As he strode through the throngs in the amphitheater, the day’s events nagged at him. He couldn’t blame Nerian for his decision, not after the assassination attempt, but the Tribunal’s potential reaction still worried him. The King was gambling with lives. If they decided to retaliate, he was uncertain whether Seti could handle an immediate attack. At the same time, he knew Nerian for the shrewd, calculating King he was. The King wouldn’t have made this move unless he thought his armies were ready. That, in itself, bothered Stefan the most. How did Nerian plan to deal with the Alzari’s instability? The few High Alzari they used to monitor their own Matii would not be enough. Stefan nodded absently.
The King knows everything you do and more. He’s thought of this already.
But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t shake his doubts.

Stefan sniffed and stopped.
What was that awful smell?

The thud of marching boots echoed from nearby. Without realizing, he’d made his way below the amphitheater where they kept the prisoners in addition to a barracks. Several thousand soldiers were in process of forming up. Stefan frowned. The men were preparing to leave.

The Knight Commander strode over to a man who stood a few feet away from them. The single golden knot on his breast identified him as a Knight Captain, or he would have been one if not for the King changing the titles within the ranks. “Captain.” Stefan made certain to use the King’s new titles. “These men have been reassigned?”

The soldier took one look at Stefan and immediately straightened his posture. “Yes, sir.”

“By whom and to where?”

“Lieutenant Cerny’s orders, sir. We are being sent with Lieutenants Senden and Renaida as part of an advanced party to gather information on the Erastonians.”

“Ah,” Stefan said. “Carry on.” He strode away.

So Cerny is effectively doing away with ones who voiced opposition to the King’s plans.
Stefan nodded. Despite his dislike for the man, he appreciated his cleverness.

Several mewls broke Stefan from his thoughts. Over to one side was a dartan pen. His musings had drawn him in so much he’d automatically found his way downstairs for something else that had caught his attention and niggled at the back of his mind. The pungent odor from earlier returned stronger than ever. It was from dartan shit and old rotting meat within the pens.

Dressed in silks, Merchant Vencel was poring over a ledger of some sort and writing information down as he inspected the animals. The beast with the saddle carved into the shell stood alone in another enclosure.

“Merchant Vencel,” Stefan called as he took in the docile way in which Vencel’s strange mount eyed him. “Just the man I wanted to see.” Now, all he needed to do was find the Banai.

C
HAPTER 15

E
yes shifting from side to side, Stefan studied the seven men who circled him in the training room. Nine months had gone by since he returned to Benez. Every day since that fateful night, he practiced the sword and spent time with his children. Sweat beaded his forehead, but he resisted the temptation to wipe it away. Instead, he kept his focus trained on Knight Carim and his friends. Shirtless, Stefan pivoted from foot to foot, ears straining for the telltale scuff of a boot, the kiss of a breeze where there should be none, the reflection in an opponent’s eye, or the twitch of an eyelid. Any such move would reveal a threat.

A scuff. Stefan spun, bringing his sword up to parry the attack from his left. His foot snaked out to the trip the man. As the attacker fell, the Knight Commander followed through, the hilt of his sword connecting with a jaw and driving his attacker into the ground.

The faint whistle of a blade slicing air. With a slight shift of his head, Stefan dodged the blow. The attacker’s arm flew by him. He gripped it and yanked. Already off–balance, the second man’s body shot forward as Stefan twisted and brought his knee up into his assailant’s unprotected stomach. The man crumpled with a grunt.

Two down.

Frustrated glares met Stefan’s smile. He waggled his weapon at Carim. A good taunt often drove youngsters to attack callously. Not Carim though. The youth had learned his lesson the hard way.

Marveling at his seemingly endless energy, Stefan allowed his chest to heave as if he’d exhausted himself in the brief exchange. The first session when he’d used his sword, he thought it was his imagination that he was faster, stronger, lighter on his feet. Now, he knew it
did
have such an effect brandishing the
divya
. Out of curiosity, he allowed Kasimir to wield it a few times. His friend said he felt nothing unusual.

Carim’s eyes flickered. Motion from behind reflected in the silversteel surface of the Stefan’s blade. They were attacking as one.

Immediately, he drifted into the Shunyata—the deep place inside the mind Matii used when they touched Mater or when they fought—for stability and control. Whereas, when he first received his
divya
, he thought it
felt
as if he and the sword were one, when inside the Shunyata, they
became
one. The weapon was an extension of his will.

He spun, caught the attack of the man from behind on his blade, and turned it aside. Without trying to counter, he ducked Carim’s stroke and rolled. The move brought him in close to the next attacker, and Stefan kicked out, forcing him to leap away.

Back now to a wall, Stefan struck a pose in one of the Stances based on the formlessness of the Flows of Mater. Within the Shunyata he no longer needed to wait for them to attack. The initiative was his. He discerned their patterns, their intentions, as clear as a cloudless sky at noon. They were his partners at a ball, their movements a simple two step dance, an obvious synchronization. His was a glide into a saltation of Styles and Stances to music only he could hear.

Stefan charged.

Into their midst he flew. His sword flashed up, down, left, right, and diagonal in Aeoli’s Hand, The God’s Way, imitating the thirty–two directions of the wind. Like the god of air, he was a storm of movement, unending, unrelenting.

A thud of the flat of his blade to the back of a head. The quick lick of a slice against flesh. A groan, a moan, an anguished cry. The breeze of a blow missing him by a hair. Parrying a cut, the impact more like a feathery touch than steel on steel. The clink of metal and the imperceptible squeal of edge striking edge. Foot lashing out to a groin, spin, then drop. The Knight Commander flipped up from his back as the next attack missed him. The series was surreal, a dream. His sword clashed with the last man standing in a steel on steel embrace.

Carim.

Stefan flicked the young Knight’s sword aside. With his next step, his weapon rested an inch from Carim’s neck. Stefan smiled. “Yield?”

“A draw I’d say.”

Frowning, Stefan looked down at the tap against his ribs. A dagger in Carim’s hand beat time on the Knight Commander’s sweaty skin.

“You always teach overconfidence can be the downfall of the best swordsman,” Carim said, perspiration trickling down his lips onto his chin as he smiled.

Stefan nodded and sheathed his sword. “A draw indeed. You’re right about overconfidence too. I guess even us Knight Commanders tend to forget what we teach sometimes.”

“General, you mean?”

“Or that,” Stefan shrugged, “but I would rather Knight Commander when you’re in the confines of my home.”
A man must maintain some semblance of control even when certain events are out of his hands.

The other Knights struggled to their feet amid moans and gritted teeth.

“Take your men to the menders, Carim. Good fight. Pay each of them a gold eagle.” Stefan smiled at the open mouths and grins from his soldiers. The reward was enough money to keep them going for several weeks of drink and women. They deserved it; their time here in Benez was almost at an end.

Stefan waved to Kasimir and Garrick to join him as the young Knights shuffled off with the help of their counterparts. Both with the new pins and stripes of their rank on display, the two Knight Generals arrived at his side by the time he pulled his tunic on and buttoned up his shirt.

“Aren’t you supposed to get slower with age, Stefan?” Kasimir asked.

“And weaker?” Garrick added with a shake of his head.

“Must be my wife’s cooking.” Stefan grinned as a servant brought over a cup filled with kinai wine.

A thoughtful expression crossed Garrick’s face as he twirled his mustache. The corner of his lip twitched.

Cup in hand, Stefan chuckled. “No, you can’t twist my words to make Thania think I spoke ill of her culinary skills.”

With a shrug, Garrick said, “Was worth a try.”

Stefan took a deep gulp from the cup, swilled the wine around, and then swallowed. The liquor coursed down his gullet in a trail of fire. Moments later, he felt as if he could fight a dozen battles. After he emptied the cup, he led the way out the oak doors and into the stairwell.

“How’s the training and recruitment gone?” Stefan asked as they headed up the steps.

“Both have been exceptional,” Kasimir said.

Garrick nodded his agreement.

“Numbers?”

“We replaced a third of our normal legions with new recruits,” Kasimir said. “They took well to the rigors of our training regimen. You can thank Garrick for that.”

The bear of a Knight General smiled. “Someone had to push them. The others who aren’t joining us this campaign were only too happy to help.”

Glad he would at least hold up his promise of peace for some of his older warriors and for those who wished to be with their family, Stefan issued a silent prayer to Ilumni. “Good,” he said. “Just in time too. The King has summoned me today. There’s no doubt our forces will march within the next few hours.”

“Knight Commander?”

“Yes?” Stefan frowned at Kasimir’s tone and grim expression.

“What are we going to do about the Erastonians? We know nothing of how they fight.”

“Not even from the Scouts?”

“No, sir,” Garrick answered. “The Heralds have not received word from any of the Scouts. Every party we sent into Everland disappeared without a trace.”

Stefan stroked his chin. This wasn’t much different from what they’d faced against the Astocans until they actually met them in their first battle.
So why do I have these nervous flutters?
“We’ll improvise if we should have a need. Use the same formations if we can. It’s a few months march from here into Everland. By then we should have some reports.” Stefan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Garrick, you let the men know to prepare. Kasimir, when you get a chance, check on Merchant Vencel.”

“Yes, sir,” both men said together.

They spent the rest of their time discussing family and the enjoyment of their break without the rigors of war. It was good to see his men in such high spirits considering they would again be leaving on a campaign. Stefan thought about visiting Anton and Celina before his trip to the Royal Palace, but decided to wait. He led Garrick and Kasimir out to their mounts.

The dying sun pricked the horizon as they said their goodbyes and departed. The two Knight Generals rode off toward the west where they could prepare the army for their long march at the entrances to the Travelshafts.

The onset of summer meant the celebration of Soltide. It signaled another successful harvest season for Seti’s bustling economy. The festival lasted weeks. Accompanied by tumblers, jugglers, and musicians, the revelers in costumes featuring outlandish colors and bits of lace that left little to the imagination, danced along the avenues. At least the nobles had on that much. Stefan could only imagine what the more free–willed common folk wore or didn’t wear.

Two stagings—one of the more expensive types of costumes—set on drays pulled by Cardian slaves, rumbled along behind the procession. The first staging was a woman covered in the plumages of several birds, their colors even more beautiful in the evening sunlight. The second was a representation of the god Humelen. This one was a man with mountains and forests painted onto his skin along with imitations of precious metals stuck to his body. Earth, wood, and metal—the solid essences that made up the element of Forms belonging to that god.

Original
. Stefan nodded, quite impressed by the creativity. The staging of the god was sure to win a prize at the contests later in the evening.

Stefan rolled his eyes at the blocked streets ahead and turned down one of the side lanes. This one wasn’t as crowded, but he needed to make another detour as it became more congested. Soon, he gave up riding altogether, choosing instead to dismount. After a bit, he left his horse at one of the few stables still open during the festivities. Weaving his way through the throngs became easier, and as he drew nearer to the Palace, the crowds lessened.

Lamps and torches lit the streets now as the sun had fled the sky leaving the pallid light of Denestia’s twin moons as the night’s herald. Up ahead, a staging blocked off an avenue. Rather annoyed now, Stefan cut down one of the few small alleys in the Upper City. Save for four inebriated revelers cavorting down the road, the alley was conspicuously empty. The three men and one woman waved to Stefan, laughing and singing in god–awful tones.

The revelers were within six feet of him when his sword gave off a subtle vibration. He frowned and touched the weapon’s hilt to make sure of the sensation. An attempt to remember where he experienced it before proved fruitless. In the next two steps, the sword thrummed against his palm so hard that he swore it wanted to leap from the scabbard of its own volition.

A scuff of a boot moving stealthily
. The sound was too purposeful for a bunch of drunks. By instinct, he ducked. A blade sliced the air vacated by his head.

“Do not allow him to draw,” a guttural voice said.

The words were like a gargle of spittle deep within a throat, more growl than speech. A hand clamped onto Stefan’s wrist with frightening power. Stefan stared down into a chiseled face with glittering coals for eyes. The man grinned. Stefan’s nose twitched at the fetid stench rolling off the would–be assassin.

Aided by the speed and strength from his touch on the
divya
, Stefan’s hand darted to his left hip. He whipped out his dagger from its sheath. In the same motion, he sliced down and across the hand restraining his own. There was a surprised yip, followed by a snarl. The man’s grip loosened.

The sword still vibrated like a madly beating heart. Stefan whipped his hand out and spun as the other three attackers attempted to assist their accomplice. Instead of whirling to escape, he used his momentum to bring himself into the first man. Eyes widening in surprise, the chisel–faced man didn’t have a chance to move as Stefan stabbed. The sword punctured his assailant’s gut. Stefan ripped up. Warm bowels gushed onto his hand and uniform.

The man grunted and a dying breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Stefan kicked him off and stumbled backward to make space for the other three assassins.

A choked howl issued from the man he’d gutted. Stefan’s gaze flitted from the three accomplices to the form thrashing on the cobbles, fluids leaking from the gashed stomach. The man’s eyes changed to a glowing, feral green.

What in Amuni’s name?

The stench hit Stefan more powerfully then, rolling in waves. Rot. Decay. Moldy fur. The pungent smell of a wraithwolf.

Shadelings? Here in Benez?

Around his twisted face, the dying man’s flesh sloughed off. Black fur replaced tan skin. His clothes writhed and stretched. The assassin was changing, growing, transforming. Ripping cloth accompanied bulging muscles as shirt and tunic tore. Gangly arms stretched down past the knees, ending in black–nailed claws twice the span of a normal man’s hand. The mouth and nose elongated into a dark muzzle lined with canines. The head thrashed once more, a puppy–like whimper escaped the beast’s jaws, and then it lay still.

Paralyzed by the transformation, Stefan stared openmouthed at the prone form of the seven–foot wraithwolf. From the corner of his eye came a flash of movement.

A fist crashed into his face with a force akin to someone picking up a flagstone and slamming it into his jaw. Something cracked. Lights danced across his vision. Blood filled his mouth with a bitter taste. Stefan stumbled to one side, swinging his sword wildly before him.