Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer

by Terry C. Simpson

  Marching ahead of them, the Dagodin guards kept the avenues and roads clear of people on their way to the games. From the way the men managed to stay in front of the trotting horses without appearing to tire, Stefan figured they must have drank some kinai concoction before the trip. Dressed in vibrant colors and designs, the townsfolk bowed as he and Cerny rode past. The stench of sweat and unwashed bodies made him glad to be riding. Children pointed from roofs and windows, and the occasional dog’s bark echoed amongst the murmuring crowds.

  “Make way! Make way!” yelled one of three soldiers at a crossroad. The other two helped to funnel people to one side or another, keeping the intersection as clear as possible.

  Thousands of conversations droned in an incessant buzz. Ahead of them, a coach carrying some noble trundled along the cobbles, its driver dressed in red and gold livery. Stefan had lost count of how many such carriages they’d passed. It appeared everyone but he had remembered the games. Not that it bothered him. Dartan fights and duels between slaves did not hold his attention as they once did as a youth. However, he did understand the need for sport, especially, the games. They brought the Setian together. The coin gained filled the city’s coffers as people from all across Seti and the surrounding lands attended and spent lavishly on everything from clothes, to food, to wagers.

  The huge sandstone and alabaster construction of the amphitheater dominated the landscape below as they turned onto the King’s Road. Here, the throngs packed to the sides in a milling mass as they inched forward in the lines leading to the arena’s main entrance. At certain sections, food vendors shouted out their wares beside their carts and stalls either by themselves or with criers. Their calls added to the cacophony. Smoke and steam rose from pots and cook fires. Meat roasted on spits, and stews and soups boiled in large pots. Spicy smells of peppered deer, quail, and roast chicken drifted through the air. Stefan’s stomach growled in protest. He hadn’t eaten yet. An image of the feast the King always provided brought on another grumble.

  He hadn’t seen Nerian since the day he returned from Astoca. Not that he minded. The time had given him a chance to think. Whereas the Chronicles mentioned a link to the Dorn line, who was to say the King they referred to might not be someone who overthrew Nerian? Maybe even Cerny. Or could it all be some grand Tribunal scheme Galiana was unwittingly tied up in? All the years spent under her tutelage and upbringing made him doubt she involved herself in a conspiracy to harm not only the man he thought of as a father but the Seti people as well.

  Whether or not the Eztezians could see all these different threads of the future was something he couldn’t simply dismiss. The Svenzar, Kalvor, seemed to believe, and so did Galiana. Head throbbing from the way his thoughts spun, he was still undecided as they rode into the amphitheater’s shadow.

  “A moment, General, Lieutenant,” a gold clad guard announced.

  At first, Stefan didn’t acknowledge the soldier. Then he realized the guard had used the new titles attributed by the King. Stefan gave a slight dip of his head to the man. The guard nodded toward a line of dartans crossing the street. They headed toward the ramp that led to the arena’s bowels.

  Stefan frowned at the sight of the beasts. Prize fighting dartans were nothing new, but the way the handlers dealt with these ones certainly was. Normally, it took several armored men prodding and poking at the animals with long lances to keep them in line. Even then, he’d witnessed once when a creature went wild and ignored the sharp points that too often did not penetrate their tough hides. The dartan snaked its head out, snatched the closest handler, and ripped him in two. Another time, a dartan plopped to the ground and withdrew its head and six limbs inside of its shell. No amount of stabbing or poking bothered the beast. It took an Alzari’s Forging to make the animal move.

  These handlers bore some kind of lengthy metal rod with a thick rubber handle. Anytime a dartan stepped the wrong direction, the handler gave the beast a jab. A jolt of blue light, much like the lightning Forgers called from the sky, arced across the rod’s tip. The beast mewled in pain, put its head down, and followed almost as docilely as a newly broken horse.

  Amazing.

  “Shocksticks,” Cerny said.

  Stefan narrowed his eyes.

  “Some Ashishin Imbuer came up with the idea.” Cerny shrugged. “They took the essences of energy during a lightning storm and infused them into the metal like any other divya. Then they attuned it to the dartans. Rather than needing a Dagodin to wield this type of divya, anyone can. Simply place the shock end onto a dartan’s skin and the reaction is instant. As you can see, quite effective at controlling those monsters.”

  The practicality of such a discovery wasn’t lost on Stefan, but right away he considered other possible uses if such divya as the shockstick could be attuned to other things besides dartans. Before he drew any conclusions, what he saw next left his mouth agape.

  A merchant dressed in silks was riding a dartan.

  Seated in a hollow carved deep into the animal’s shell, the man waved to children and other folk who pointed and stared as Stefan did. Occasionally, the dartan swung its head around to reach the rider, but the merchant’s position prevented it from doing so. A shorter version of the shockstick dissuaded the dartan on such occasions. The man’s head and shoulders stuck up beyond the shell to give him an ample view of his surroundings. He tugged on reins made from silvery chain, and the dartan leaped forward in an easy lope that took it past the others and down the ramp.

  “Show off,” the guard said.

  “Who is he?” Stefan managed to ask.

  “That’s Merchant Vencel. He loves to make a spectacle since he figured out a way to ride them things.” The guard shook his head. “I still wouldn’t risk it. Got these fool youngsters all over the place trying. Many of ‘em are dying too, behind that foolishness.”

  Thoughts still swirling Stefan said nothing. He promised himself to have a talk with this merchant at some point.

  “Well,” the guard said, “the way’s clear. You may go now, sir. Enjoy the games.”

  With a nod, Stefan spurred his mount forward and crossed Humelen Avenue with its huge statues of giants carrying mountains on their shoulders—some builder’s representation of the god of Forms after whom the street got its name. He entered through the wide entrance meant for nobles only, nodding to the guards as he did so. Whether Cerny followed or not, he didn’t care. Now that he was within the amphitheater, his hunger pangs took on more urgency.

  After leaving his mount with a young stable boy, Stefan entered the main hall. Dignitaries, merchants, and court members crowded the area, smoke from pipes floating lazily. The sweet scent from the giana pipes mingled with the perfumes of the women and created an almost sickly odor. As Stefan stepped into the room, the chatter paused as minor nobles acknowledged his entrance. Moments later the conversation buzzed on once more.

  Several times Stefan swore there was a weird thrumming from the sword against his leg. However, when he attempted to focus, it disappeared. Soon, he dismissed the sensation as a residual effect from the stomping and yelling in the arena outside. A glance over his shoulder revealed Cerny had stopped to chat. Stefan took food from a platter a servant carried and continued to weave his way through the men and women to the door leading upstairs.

  “Stefan,” a raspy voice said.

  A smile on his face at his recognition of the voice, Stefan turned. Although bald, Knight General Senden still looked half his ninety years. His shoulders were straight and broad in his immaculate white jacket with green scrollwork down the sleeves. Next to him was Knight General Renaida. The twenty years of youth he had on Senden did not show. The man’s eyes were sunken sockets and pockmarks marred his face. His hair was as white as Senden’s jacket.

  “Walk with us,” Senden said.

  Renaida’s eyes shifted from side to side. Sweat beaded his forehead
, running a trail through the bronze powder he used to give color to his skin.

  Stefan frowned at the man’s apparent worry. “After the games.” He rubbed his stomach. “Right now, I could eat an entire dartan.”

  “No,” Senden said with a hint of urgency, “before you visit the King.”

  “Fine. Let me—”

  “Ah, there are you are, Lord Dorn,” called Cerny from a few steps behind.

  Renaida gave a slight twitch at the sound of Cerny’s voice but quickly covered the reaction.

  “I have been told the King is in his chambers already, awaiting your presence.” Cerny stepped up beside them, a serene smile on his face. “If you Lieutenants will excuse us?”

  “Sure.” Senden smiled, but from his eyes, the expression was forced. “We would not want to delay the General. After the games then, Stefan.” Senden bowed, motioned to Renaida and the two eased their way into the crowd.

  A thumb stroking his chin, Stefan eyed the two men until they disappeared from view. He’d spent years on many a campaign with them. Never did they appear as fearful as they did now, not even when they faced shadelings.

  “I’d be careful associating with them,” Cerny said. “They are the only ones on the High Council who openly criticize the King’s new campaign.”

  “Now you’re going to suggest who I keep as friends?”

  “Not at all, sir. Not at all.” Cerny wore the same smile on his face. “But as I said, the King awaits. Shall we?” He spun with a flourish and stepped through the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  Several flights up winding stairs that held one soldier at each landing brought Stefan and Cerny to the King’s chamber. Two red and blue clad Royal Guards at the door gave slight nods before they allowed them in. Stomach growling in earnest, Stefan strode through the foyer.

  Members of the High Council and special dignitaries from prominent neighboring cities occupied the Royal chambers. Dressed in their finest, they milled about chatting quietly, not even giving a nod as Stefan passed. He recognized they were Council members by the insignias on their lapels and sleeves. Not one among them were people who held their positions before he left for the last war. The thought was so troubling, he found himself stroking his chin again.

  Distant jeers drew his attention away from the nobles and to the four doorways ahead. Guards stood before each. The largest door led to the Royal Box from which Nerian oversaw the games. No action had started yet, of that, Stefan was sure, but the noise meant the crowd was growing impatient.

  Not waiting for Cerny to lead the way, he headed toward the door. The King’s guards allowed him through and into the hall. More soldiers stood along the walls on either side making the spacious area feel uncomfortably small. Up ahead, sunlight shone through the entrance to the arena’s stands.

  Stefan stepped out onto the stairs. Bright sunlight and a cool breeze greeted him. Shading his eyes, he waited a few moments for his vision to adjust. When it did, he took in the walls of people packed into the stands. In too many colors to count, they spread down the eastern and western sides of the arena, waving and yelling.

  Set in the middle of the lower section of the stands, the King’s Box took up several seating levels. In silversteel armor, which glinted like a precious jewel, King Nerian sat on a cushioned throne. The giant man’s presence made everything else trivial.

  “Finally,” shouted Nerian, a grin splitting his face. “I was beginning to wonder if Cerny and you ran off to some whorehouse.”

  “Not at all, sire. The crowds … you know how they can be,” Stefan answered.

  “Ah. To be expected with such a glorious event.” Nerian gestured out to the spectators. “Come, sit.” The King indicated one of the empty chairs next to his throne.

  At least ten flights of seats above the King were clear of anyone but guards and two green liveried servants. After the space came the High Council then the other nobles in their personal chairs. Oddly, Kahar was absent. Servants weaved their way among the nobles, serving fruit, drinks, meats, and bread. Stefan’s gaze followed one particular platter heaped with what appeared to be venison. He licked his lips as his stomach protested mightily.

  “Knowing your habits like I do, you have not eaten yet today.” King Nerian snapped his fingers as Stefan took the seat. Without looking at the servants, the King said, “Our guest of honor is here, and he is famished. Cerny,” the King’s gaze flickered to the reed thin man who’d approached as Stefan sat, “leave us.”

  For a moment, Cerny’s eyes glittered, and then he bowed and headed up to the next level and the members of the High Council. Renaida and Senden were conspicuously missing from their number.

  The King stood, his massive form casting a shadow that stretched up several seats. Almost immediately, the crowds silenced and rose to their feet.

  “People of the Setian Empire.” Nerian’s voice boomed across the arena so clear and crisp Stefan knew he was Forging.

  The crowd’s answering ovation rippled through the stadium.

  Nerian raised a hand and the din simmered.

  “People. Of. The. Setian. Empire.”

  This time, the reply was defeaning.

  Nerian’s grin and twinkling emerald eyes told how much he savored the words. Hand still in the air he turned as if basking in the glow of his people’s elation. He drew his hand across as if slicing the air and the cheers lessened. When all were silent once again, he continued, “It feels good to finally say that after all these years. Your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice has brought us the greatest reward possible. In appreciation for our General Dorn who has led the way in our campaign, I honor you, the people, with these games. Long live Seti.”

  The crowd roared the sentiment. Thousands upon thousands of stomping feet shook the stonework beneath Stefan’s feet.

  Still smiling, Nerian sat. The spectators’ celebration continued as the metal gates on either side of the arena slid up and two dartans entered. Carried by a Forging, an announcer’s voice rose over the racket to proclaim the upcoming fight. The look on the King’s face conjured memories of a time when the man reveled in leading Seti for the good of its people. Stefan wondered if that man still existed beneath the armor.

  “So,” Nerian said. “Fatherhood appears to have been good to you. You enjoy your children and those gardens of yours so much you have yet to come visit me.”

  Stefan lounged back in his chair and allowed his limbs to relax. The King was letting him know he had someone within his house. Any sign of emotion now served no purpose. Stefan briefly considered which guard or servant might be the spy, but speculation was a pointless exercise. Even if he did discover the one responsible, Nerian would find another. “Yes. It’s been wonderful. Better than I ever imagined.” He studied the empty throne next to Nerian. The man had never taken a wife as far as Stefan knew. “Maybe it’s time you find a queen and have an heir.”

  “Why?” Nerian shrugged. “I rather enjoy my rule. Considering that I have no intention of relinquishing the crown or dying anytime soon, I do not have a need for one. You are the closest thing I will ever have to a son.”

  Despite the King’s nonchalance, Stefan caught the quick glimmer of sadness in his eyes. As with most of the Alzari on the High Council, Nerian lived an extended life. Stefan had traced the King’s ancestors once and how long he’d ruled. The annals went back at least five hundred years before they became too disjointed to tell who held the throne before Nerian. One of the biggest issues with all Matii was that they often had only one chance to give birth. Most took advantage of the opportunity to pass down their power and extend their lineage. Others preferred to allow their line to die off rather than have their children experience the walk at the edge of sanity that burdened them all. Nerian’s last words confirmed he’d made such a choice long ago.

  “If you only knew w
hat it is like …” the King’s voice softened. “A gift but so much more a curse.” He looked out to the crowds, but his expression was as if he saw nothing. “You have heard the voices once, I’m sure, when you first touched Mater—the way they whisper, goad you, make promises, seep into your core—all Matii have. But to live with them every day, every waking moment, invading your dreams, your nightmares … Such a burden becomes unbearable. Such a life might make a man want to kill himself, yet the same things that drive you mad also prevent you from taking such a course.” A solitary tear dripped down Nerian’s cheek. “Why would I want to bring a child into that?” With his thumb, he flicked the wetness away. “You are a braver man than me, by far. You have brought two.”

  Mouth open, Stefan broke eye contact with the King. This was the first time Nerian revealed such sentiments to him. The man he saw now was more the person he remembered if a bit more emotional. He thought back to when he first returned to Benez, and felt as if two completely different people inhabited the King’s body. Absently, Stefan glanced down into the arena where the two dartans were tearing into each other to the crowd’s delight. When he met the King’s emerald eyes again, an icy coolness had replaced the melancholy.

  “Does this mean you will let me live in peace to raise them?” Without blinking, Stefan held the King’s gaze.

  “You and I both know that is not possible.” No hint of emotion resided in Nerian’s tone. “For me to succeed, the men need you. They believe in you. The people believe in you. Stefan the Undefeated and his Unvanquished are names that strike fear into many an enemy’s heart.”

  “If I refuse, will you force Thania and the children into service?” Stefan tensed.

  A frown clouded Nerian’s features. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “The last time we spoke, you—”