Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (2 page)

Too late and moving too fast to pull up, the Astocan cavalry slammed into steel instead of men. Horses died and sent soldiers crashing to the ground. The force of some of the sudden impacts propelled Astocans into the Setian ranks.

The Setian front line took a step back. Simultaneously, the pikemen yanked out their spears from the dead or dying. They shifted, allowing a space between each man, and the next file assumed their places. The movement was seamless. Unable to breach the formation, the next wave of horsemen died, impaled on steel.

Stefan saw he was wrong about one thing.

The Astocan cavalry were not simply archers but trained infantry also. Roaring as their battle rage took them, the ones who flew into the Setian lines that hadn’t sustained grievous wounds lay about them with short swords. Their blows sheared through steel and lopped off limbs. More often than not, it took three or more of his men to down one crazed Astocan. When the last one fell, the Knight Commander let out a relieved breath. The second rank of his swordsmen replaced the first. Stefan shifted his attention to the remainder of the Astocans.

Depleted by more than half, the charge waned while their men still died to the firing scorpios. The drum rolls and triumphant horns faltered, cutting off mid note. By the fifteenth flight of steel bolts, before their main infantry ever reached the Setian front lines, the Astocans broke.

The barrage of projectiles did not end. The Astocans were well within the scorpios’ thirteen hundred foot range. Winches cranked to increase their trajectory. The machines fired again and again. Bolts split skulls, punched through backs, and some cut limbs in half. Fleeing men fell.

Out of habit, Stefan took the pendant that hung from the chain around his neck and kissed the likeness of his wife. Soon, they would be together, but for now, there was a little work left. If they were lucky, maybe a quarter of the Astocans survived. Face a mask, Stefan said, “Call off the scorpios. Kasimir, Garrick, leave as many alive as you can, but bring me their General’s head.”

“King Nerian’s orders were to kill everyone,” Cerny protested.

Garrick clapped the smaller man on the back. “Do that and who would tell of our glorious victory then?”

“But the King—”

“Doesn’t command this field.” Stefan spared a glare for Cerny. He nodded to Kasimir and Garrick. “Send eagles to the other forces and let them know we no longer need them here. Have them head to Castere and take control of what’s left of the Astocan government. I’ll see you back at my pavilion when it’s done.”

“What of the King’s tithe as well as the number to be enslaved?” Garrick raised a questioning eyebrow.

The thought of slavery curdled Stefan’s insides. He didn’t object openly, but his refusal to partake in the negotiations after the victories spoke for itself. Once in a great while someone mistook his concern for softness until his sword proved differently. “Send word to the King that as usual he can have one of the High Council relay his demands.” Nerian wouldn’t be pleased, but then again, he was accustomed to Stefan’s way of doing things. Sweeping victories in return for some leeway was a good tradeoff.

The two Knight Generals put fists to hearts and rode toward their legions.

“Cerny,” Stefan said, the corner of his lips curling. “I don’t care if you’re slotted to be the next Knight Commander. Object to my commands in front my men again, and I will have you flogged and sent home to the King with your back and ass bloody.”

At first, Cerny’s mouth dropped open, and his complexion paled. Then he gathered himself and stiffened. “I’ll have—”

“Are we clear?” Stefan made his eyes blank pits, his features expressionless.

“Yes, sir, Knight Commander Dorn.”

Without another word, Stefan signaled to his escorts. Not caring if Cerny followed, he wheeled his mount to face the neat Setian tent lines spread before him less than a mile away. He set off at a trot.

Inside his tent, Stefan’s gaze drifted to the map of Ostania and all its kingdoms. Three of them now belonged to Seti—the three that mattered the most. Next to the map was an artist’s impression of the Great Divide far to the north in Everland—a jagged tear in the earth that went on for miles. Depicted crawling from the edges, creatures of pure night slunk up from the chasm. Shadelings, every one of them. People fled before certain death. He kept the artwork there as a constant memorial of the darkness that once plagued Ostania. A reminder of why he fought these campaigns.

As he stroked the prickly stubble under his chin, Stefan mulled over the message Cerny had delivered from the King. “Is that all? I need to let my men know they have earned their peace.”

“Look,” Cerny whispered, eyes shifting nervously to the tent’s entrance. “I advise against this.”

Stefan scowled at the man. “And I advise you to keep this news to yourself. If I even hear a word of it from any of my men … an inkling … a whisper ….” He let his voice trail off but deliberately slid a hand to his sword.

Cerny’s head bobbed up and down as he averted his eyes. “As you say, sir. How soon will you speak to your men so Selentis and I can be on our way?”

“Cerny.” Stefan took a deep breath. “You’re trying my patience. Stop, please. Also, I don’t care if she’s outside or how you feel about them … when speaking of Alzari in my presence use the proper title and show respect.”

After sparing the Knight General an additional glare, Stefan stepped outside, his armor clinking as he ducked through his tent’s flaps. Overhead, Denestia’s twin moons shone in a cloudless sky, casting the surrounding countryside in silvery blue. He breathed deep, rolled his neck, and worked the tightness from his back and shoulders. The smell of food, the cackle of laughter, raucous song of drunken soldiers, the tinkle of music, and the giggle of women greeted him. Campfires and torches lit the encampment as his men reveled in their victory. They drank, gambled, gorged themselves on a myriad of dishes, or rutted with whores.

He signaled to the green and gold robed Alzari Matus who stood guard outside his tent—one of King Nerian’s own. The woman, who along with Cerny, had brought the news from the King. News he never expected. “Zar Selentis, if you will be so kind, I need everyone to hear me.”

The Alzari Matus’ face wrinkled in concentration. As with any other of her kind who could delve into the elements of Mater said to reside within everything in the world, Stefan was certain she was doing just that. The ability allowed her to touch the essences within those elements and shape them by the force of her will.

He wanted so much to open up his own senses to see the wonder of what she Forged. But he cringed with the thought of what might await him there. Yet, he couldn’t help but frown. Did she Forge air alone to carry his voice? Or more?

In his youth, he’d often dreamed of wielding the same power as an Alzari Matus or any other Forger. They were lauded as being blessed among the gods, and as a boy of faith, he could not think of a greater honor. Gifted with the ability to harness the elements of Mater like the gods themselves, able to create, to destroy, or to save lives. How he’d dreamed. Until he witnessed what awaited those who succumbed to the very power they wielded. Those horrors had etched themselves into his mind. He shuddered.

“It is done, Knight Commander. You may speak,” the Zar said, her voice showing no strain.

“Thank you, Zar Selentis,” Stefan said. He closed his eyes to quell the emotions warring inside him. Words from
The Disciplines echoed in his head. ‘As a leader, be careful what you promise your men. Failure to deliver can be as costly as defeat. Glory, the spoils of war, and the worship of the commoners are good forms of motivation, but use such rewards sparingly. The trust of your men hinges on their belief in you. In turn, victory hinges on that same belief. Break that trust but once, and the damage may be irreparable.’

“Men,” he called as he opened his eyes.

Enhanced by the Alzari Matus’ power, his voice boomed across the encampment to every corner, certain to reach all thirty thousand soldiers. The celebratory noises dwindled away, leaving only the crackle of fire and the scuff of a boot here or there. Heads shifted and eyes focused in his direction.

“For thirty years, you have followed me. You have feasted with me before every battle and after every victory. You have obeyed my commands without question. In turn, I have walked in the footsteps and listened to the words of a great man, a man more like a father to me than the father I knew. To King Nerian the Lightbearer!” Stefan raised his cup of kinai wine and downed it in one gulp.

“To King Nerian the Lightbearer!” his men echoed, cheering each other on as they drank.

The liquor wasn’t as refined as his wife’s was, but it did the job. The kinai wine’s heat flared down his gullet, bringing with it a sense of renewed vigor. Tasting the drink brought on a longing to be with Thania, conjuring memories of her dark hair, coppery skin and golden eyes. Stefan smiled despite the heaviness in his heart. “Men.” The noise died once more. “Tonight, we feast together again, but for another reason. I was a mere youth, my nineteenth naming day when I earned my first command.”

“Are you saying you’re an old man now?” called a gruff voice.

All around, soldiers barely stifled their laughter.

“Not quite, Carim,” Stefan said to the smooth–faced Knight. “But I could whip you and any other youngster who think they can best me with a sword. Wait …” He grinned. “Isn’t that exactly what I did to you two days ago? It was four of you, wasn’t it?”

Guffaws and good–natured ribbing came from the men around Carim. Red faced but smiling, the Knight bowed.

“Anyway,” Stefan said. The men quieted. “When the King began his campaigns, I assured him we would be victorious—I promised YOU victory.”

“Stefan the Undefeated, Stefan the Steadfast,” someone shouted. Picked up by other voices, the names rolled through the camp.

The Knight Commander raised his cup, and the shouts lessened until the men drifted into silence once more. “The victories are not mine alone or the Knight Generals.” He gestured to Garrick, Kasimir and the others. “But yours.” He pointed to the soldiers. “You men made this possible. Your willingness to believe in us, to stand before superior numbers undaunted, and battle to the last breath. Your fortitude to train until your body burns and you can no longer take a step much less lift a weapon has carried us to this point.” Chest heaving, he paused. “YOU … have made the name Setian a name to be feared, a name to be held in awe, a name to be revered for all time!”

A cheer went up then, building into a deafening roar. Stefan allowed it to continue for a few moments. They deserved their elation.

“Today,” Stefan said, his words rising above the din to wash it away. “You won the last victory in our campaign to make Ostania whole once more. We can stand against the shade and any other enemies as one people, one nation, unified. Today, we routed the Astocans like their cousins the Cardians before them. Coupled with the Banai surrender, we have prevailed. Today, we can truly consider ourselves an empire.” Amid the wild whoops that followed, Stefan rolled the word around on his tongue, loving the taste.

“I promised you something else back then. For those of you who remember that day and have witnessed me repeat the same time and again … I promised you peace … a chance to raise your families, to love your wives, to find a wife, start a family, to ensure our future as a people.

“I said you would have a chance to go home to Seti one day to live a different life. Not as soldiers, but as merchants, miners, farmers and teachers, or simply to relax, enjoy life and your children until the end of your days.”

The camp reached a palpable silence.

“You.” He pointed out to his men, drawing his hand from left to right to encompass them all. “You. Every single one of you. The ones before you who have shed blood, who have given an arm, a leg, a life, for the King, for Seti, for victory, deserve this day.

“Men of the Unvanquished …” it was the name many had begun calling them, and although he resisted it, and often said he never wanted to hear the name in his presence, right now, the title fit. “I give you peace.”

When the triumphant cries bellowed, Stefan could no longer hear himself think. He allowed the feeling to wash over him, reveling in the tingle it brought. Not only the cheers and belief of his men but the word peace itself.

It meant he should have been able to finally go home to Seti, be with Thania, and maybe, just maybe, start a family. A smile that did not touch his eyes bloomed on his face. However, as he turned and entered his pavilion with Garrick and Kasimir close on his heels, his expression crumpled.

C
HAPTER 2

S
everal hours later, after Cerny and Zar Selentis left to return to the capital, Stefan sat at the table in his pavilion. Two candles in glass holders occupied the table’s center, their perfumed scent overriding that of the untouched food before him. Illuminated by flickering light, a map next to his plate displayed his forces. He removed the pins representing the Alzari Matii. By now, they were well on their way back to Benez under Cerny’s command.

Men were going to die because of the King’s order for their withdrawal. A great many.

In the days to come, the first to perish would mainly be Astocans. Some might say their deaths weren’t much of a loss, but eventually, his own men would number among the dead. A sense of helplessness crowded over him, and he sighed. Yet, he harbored no regrets for his announcement. Somehow, some way, he needed to stay true to his word.

“So what now?” Kasimir asked.

In his brooding, Stefan had almost forgotten about him and Garrick. “We do as we have always done … save as many of the enemy as we can.”

Garrick grumbled a protest under his breath.

“I know how you feel about them, Garrick.” Stefan recalled the sight of Garrick’s mangled body and face after his torture by the Astocans. “However, this was the one thing King Nerian, myself, and the High Council agreed upon. We would be different from other conquerors. We decided to save as many of those we defeated and give their people some choice in how we rule. This way, the common folk won’t think of us as tyrants—a lesson history taught us.”

“Use force as necessary for victory and compassion when the battle is won,” Kasimir said. A quote from Henden’s
The Disciplines of Soldiering
.

“Exactly.”

“I understand.” Garrick let out a resigned breath. “I still don’t like it.”

“If that’s the case, what I don’t get,” Kasimir shifted in his seat and peered at the map, “is why the King ordered us to kill them all and now has withdrawn our Alzari menders.”

Stefan nodded. “Yes, that’s been troubling me also. I can’t remember Nerian changing plans without conferring with me in person. So why now? I swear … I feel as if something is amiss back home. I don’t trust Cerny. Any man who is so quick to do anything without questioning motives often has his own plans.”

“You think he had a hand in this?” Garrick scowled.

“Not likely,” Stefan said. “The man barely knows the ass end of a horse. Someone else may be using him.”

“Or he’s smarter than any of us suspects,” Kasimir added.

“Still,” Stefan said, “until I speak to Nerian himself, I’m not changing how we do things. We’ll mend as many Astocans as we can.”

“How are you going to accomplish that without our Alzari?” Kasimir leaned back in his chair, armor creaking as he did so.

“We do possess other Matii besides them,” Stefan reminded him. His thoughts drifted to the crimson-garbed Ashishin Matii sent by the Granadian Tribunal. Considering the old hostilities between Ostania and Granadia, the Tribunal’s willingness to help and their accepting King Nerian among their ranks had come as a shock. It had taken a while for his men to adjust to the Ashishin. The fact that the Pathfinders—whose job it was to kill any Ashishin who succumbed to their power—accompanied them, had not helped.

Initially, his own Alzari had protested the Pathfinders’ presence. When orders arrived from Nerian himself, stating that the Pathfinders would also decide the fate of the Alzari, the outrage grew. It hadn’t lessened, but they did tread with fear around the silver-armored Pathfinders. Stefan was certain Nerian’s new orders relieved the majority of them. However, he harbored his own doubts as to the results of the King’s command. He shook off the thought to hear Garrick speaking.

“Mending as many folk as we gathered might be a bit much for them. Ashishin Matii may be stronger than Alzari, but I doubt they’d be able to do the job without going mad, even if they got it done at all.”

As much as Stefan hated to admit it, the big Knight General was right. Forging Mater varied by Matus, requiring a certain proportion of essences to be available in relation to the Forger’s strength. One could not simply create something from nothing. The Matus, in this case Forgers like the Ashishin or Alzari, either used what existed around them or enhanced that which was inside them for what they wanted to Forge. Centuries before, this was one of the reasons the Alzari had defeated the Namazzi, whose strength lay in water. On land, and without a rainstorm, the Alzari outlasted them until the Namazzi used up whatever liquids they’d stored. The Battle of Blood, it had been aptly named.

From the little Stefan understood, mending worked in the same fashion. The Matus had to use a liquid essence, preferably water or blood, some type of solid, preferably tissue, be it plant, human, or animal, as well as a touch of the essences required for life from either their patient or themselves, in order to mend a wound. Unlike a sickness, which they could simply drive from a body. He was certain the process was much more complicated, but that was the best explanation he ever received.

“You also seem to forget the Shins aren’t exactly ours,” Garrick added.

Considering Garrick’s disposition towards Ashishin, Stefan was surprised to hear the man use their honorary title. “Maybe, but they are all we have. The risk is worth it. At least to save the soldiers who are worse off. For the ones with minor wounds, we gather apothecaries from the surrounding villages. It’s paramount we do something to gain the people’s trust.”

“What if one of the Ashishin does go mad?” Kasimir arched an eyebrow.

“We let their Pathfinders deal with them,” Stefan answered.

“I don’t know.” Garrick shook his head skpetically. “The Pathfinders themselves worry me. What makes them so different from a Shin, Zar, or any other Forger? Why are they immune to the elements’ effects? Another thing, if they do know a way to keep their madness at bay, why keep it secret?”

“Does it matter?” Stefan shrugged. “The Pathfinders never fail to do their jobs.”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Garrick countered.

“Regardless,” Stefan spared a glare for his big friend, “they’re the ones we rely on. Now, if you two don’t mind, I need you to visit the villages, collect the apothecaries, and head to the encampment. When you leave, send in Pathfinder Kaden.”

The two Knight Generals stood, bowed, and left the tent.

Stefan rubbed at his throbbing temple. Other than the difference in elements each could Forge, Alzari, Ashishin and Pathfinders were the same or should be. So why were they so far apart in control? Did their strength in particular essences within each element create the disparity, decided who went mad? No, he doubted that. Someone would have resolved such an issue long ago. He’d inquired after the Pathfinders and the Ashishin in general once, but his questions resulted in silence. On more than one occasion, he was told to direct his questions to their ruling Tribunal. Stefan shook his head. As a free Ostanian, setting foot in Granadia was not an option. Not if he wished to live.

Still, the plan to mend the Astocans was a risky business. Chances were they might overwork the Ashishin. Doing so could result in more bloodshed. But the lives saved by their work and the modicum of trust such a compassionate act brought was what mattered. Ostania needed to be whole again. For that to occur, the Astocans must see the Setian meant well.

Stefan closed his eyes and worked his neck from side to side to relieve some tightness. He wondered what his wife was doing at home in Benez right now. The sweet scent of bellflowers from the candles tickled at his nose. Thania’s and his favorite. He sighed. Gods knew he wanted to be in his villa again. He pictured his triumphant return and the cheering masses. More than them, he anticipated the sight of Thania on the wall awaiting his arrival.

A rustle announced the tent’s flap opening. Stefan eased his eyes open. A smooth–faced cadet stepped inside.

The young man placed a fist to his heart and gave a stiff bow. “Sir, Pathfinder Kaden is here.”

“Send him in.”

The cadet ducked outside and moments later, Kaden entered. As with all other Pathfinders, he wore filigreed silversteel armor. The torchlight played off its surface, highlighting the fine craftsmanship. At Kaden’s hip rested a sword in a leather scabbard chased with the same metal. The Pathfinder’s eyes were dark things obscured within the port of his full plate helm. The small golden shield worked into Kaden’s breastplate was the only thing differentiating his armor from his fellow Pathfinders.

King Nerian’s words rose fresh in Stefan’s mind:
‘The Pathfinders protect us from the Ashishin and the Ashishin from themselves.
’ The words lent Stefan some comfort. Things existed that were beyond men like himself or his Knight Generals. For those, he needed Matii like the Ashishin or the Alzari and inevitably men like Kaden and those he led.

Kaden knuckled his forehead to Stefan. “Sir, I assume this means we leave for the encampment at dawn?” Despite the helmet enclosing his face, Kaden’s voice was deep, clear, and vibrant.

To the point.
Stefan nodded. “Yes. There are more wounded Astocans than expected. Quite a few from our earlier skirmishes, in fact. Your Shins will be mending near fifteen thousand men.” Stefan wished the Pathfinder’s entire face was visible, but the narrowing of Kaden’s eyes told him enough. “Can they can manage?”

“If we had a few weeks or if I had more than a thousand Ashishin
plus
your Alzari, yes, but you want this done in days. Why? It’s not only the lives of these Astocans at stake. There is a possibility I will lose some of my own men as well.”

“I understand, Pathfinder Kaden.” Stefan stared through the slit of an entrance to his tent and into the night. “A King once said to me, ‘a good commander is one who shows an interest in the plight of his enemy, especially after their defeat. Such an act goes a long way in turning the mind of one’s enemy to seeing more than a simple conqueror.’ ”

“A wise man. But what of my Ashishin? Essentially, you might be working them to death, and putting your men as well as what’s left of the enemy you’re trying to save at risk at the same time.”

“Doesn’t your Tribunal proclaim the Shins as servants to all?”

Kaden regarded him in silence for a moment. “Fair enough.” The Pathfinder tipped his head. “Whatever is the Tribunal’s wish, I am but an extension of their orders.”

“Good. Now, do you think your Pathfinders will be able to prevent any Shins from losing control?”

“We can try, but there are no guarantees in this. However,
if
one of them does succumb, we should be able to stop them before they do any damage.”

“That will have to do,” Stefan said.

“Knight Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Why did King Nerian summon the Alzari back to Seti?”

“I’m wondering the same thing myself,” Stefan answered.

“If something should go wrong tomorrow, Nerian’s decision will be partly to blame.”

“Then let’s make sure nothing does.”