Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer

by Terry C. Simpson

Stefan cocked his head expectantly.

  “At first they refused to become involved, but after I translated more of the Chronicles, I had no choice but to take what I found to their Exalted.”

  A whistle escaped Stefan’s lips. The Exalted ranked above even a High Ashishin in power. Rumored to be at least a millennium in age, they were supposedly the highest authority within the Tribunal, commanding from the shadows. They were legends whose existence Galiana’s words confirmed. “What did you find?”

  “Another passage referring to the future,” Galiana answered. “It read:

  From Ostania’s ashes and Erastonian blood, the Dosteri rise,

  Granadia will fall,

  Devout and all,

  As it was before

  So shall it be again

  World without end

  War without end

  When comes the appointed hour,

  Under the rule of the one with Etchings of Power,

  Stone will crumble,

  The void shall rumble,

  Clouds will grow,

  Water shall flow,

  Light and shade as one,

  Fire and ice as one,

  Denestia shall bend to its knee,

  Until the elements exist in harmony.”

  The words made little sense to Stefan. His expression must have said the same to Galiana because she didn’t wait for him to ask.

  “It predicts the end of Ostania and Granadia,” Galiana said softly. “A force or a race rising from the destruction of the Erastonians. The Dosteri, they are called. More than that, the passage tells of the release of essences and their combining, even light and shade, under the rule of one man.”

  “Nerian?”

  Galiana nodded. “I–I think that’s his intention. I thought convincing the Exalted of my translation would be near impossible, but they already knew. They expected something of this nature. They said if Nerian continues on this course, shadelings will be the least of our worries.”

  Something worse than shadelings? Stefan refused to believe his ears. He wracked his mind to come up with any possibilities but failed. “Did they say what?”

  Galiana hesitated before she answered. “No, but the information must be in the Chronicles somewhere. Regardless, they are willing to help by giving us a piece of land for those we can manage to save. They say the worst of what is to come may still be avoided if we can stop Nerian.”

  Her hesitation bothered Stefan, but he pushed it from his mind. The possibility gave him new hope. “What did they want in exchange? The sword?”

  “No,” Galiana said. “Actually, they gave you permission to keep it.”

  “They did? Why?”

  Galiana shrugged. “They did not say, but they insisted that it was yours to keep. As for their price, they had several. The Alzari and Dagodin we do manage to save will be placed in schooling towns within Granadia. Mysteras, they called them. Their jobs will be to teach those who are born from any Matus bloodlines. Also, we will not be allowed to have all the survivors in one place. They must be divided and spread across Granadia.”

  “Makes sense,” Stefan said. “Use our Matii to gain knowledge of Alzari Forges, while at the same time keeping us separated in case we consider betraying them.” He frowned. “You’re not finished, are you?”

  “No,” Galiana said. “Their other requirement was far worse.” She took a deep breath. “They wish for the Alzari High Council to turn over the secret we have held for several thousand years. I … I … still do not know how I can tell them …”

  Brows drawing together even tighter, Stefan waited.

  “They want the secret of our Forging that decreases aging among the Setian Matii.”

  Stefan’s mind churned. The Exalted already outlived most or so he thought. “Why?”

  “The Exalted are ancient withered things,” Galiana said with a sigh. “Apparently, whatever Forge they themselves used to increase their life spans did not halt the aging process. It also involved killing many in order to use the dying person’s essences to increase their own life. I have learned that the kingdom skirmishes in Granadia are fashioned by the Tribunal for this reason. It is partially why they involved themselves in our conflicts … to gain access to essences from the dying.”

  “No, that can’t be true.”

  “It is. The Exalted take lives to lengthen theirs.”

  Stefan felt a weakness in his legs. He had thought he was doing the right thing; instead, he was leading his people from one monster to another. But what choice did he have? If the Chronicles were true, and he did not follow through with the plan, the Setian as a people would be no more. When he met Galiana’s gaze, an overwhelming sadness reflected in her expression. “Is there something else?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

  “Nothing.” Galiana gave a slow shake of her head. She averted her eyes. “I–I will tell the Exalted we accept.”

  Somehow, he didn’t believe her. She was keeping some other news hidden from him. At this point though, what they would be forced to do seemed terrible enough. If indeed there was more, he hoped Galiana told him eventually. He prayed she did so before time ran out. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  Head down, Stefan left her. He trudged upstairs to share what he’d learned with Thania and spend some time with his children before the King summoned him once more. A solitary tear trickled down his face. He lacked the will to wipe his cheek.

  War was coming. Death was coming.

  “Dear Ilumni,” he prayed. “Show me a way to survive.”

  PART 2

  ALLEGIANCES, HOMECOMING, SANCTUARY

  CHAPTER 20

  Tobal had once been a prosperous Harnan town at the edge of the Mondros Forest. Now, the dead and scavengers inhabited its streets and rundown buildings. They hung out of windows, lay on the russet–splattered cobbles, perched on the roofs, or dug into their next meal. The stench of death overrode that of char, and the day’s heat made it worse. The odor crawled up Stefan Dorn’s nose and threatened to choke him. Covering his mouth with his hand, he fought down bile.

  Crows and ravens pecked at bloated corpses. A lapra, its muzzle and body the size of a large dog, perched on four of its six legs as it tore flesh from a young girl’s remains. The brown–furred beast ignored Stefan’s approach. His arrow took the creature in the chest. The lapra keeled over. Their caws a chorus of protests, the scavenger birds took flight in a black ripple.

  “This is all they leave behind,” Elder Hurst said in a quiet voice. Near seven feet, like most Harnan, his shoulders slumped as he regarded the carnage. “May Humelen and the Forms embrace them,” he prayed.

  Behind the Harnan rode High Ashishin Clarice in her crimson robes with its silver sleeves. The dark–haired woman kept her face expressionless and back straight, but from her pallor, Stefan could tell she found the slaughter troubling.

  This was not the first such town he’d seen after an Erastonian attack, nor was it the second or even the tenth. He’d witnessed too many massacres to count now. Most times the inhabitants were Setian. Since the day the Unvanquished had been defeated, almost fifteen years ago, the Erastonians proved to be an implacable enemy. They spared no one.

  However, the dead within the town did not compare to what shadelings wrought. People who died to Erastonian swords were still able to see the gods. Shadelings took a person’s life and their soul. They created more of their kind from death. That was the future if both the Erastonians and Nerian weren’t stopped. The genocide was beginning with the Setian. Where it would end, Stefan wished he knew.

  Since that first day, Nerian had not taken part in any further battles. He remained in Benez as the Erastonians countered his armies at every turn. Stefan was sick of defeat and his people’s suffering, but before he could take on Nerian, he had
to deal with the invaders.

  “They can be turned aside,” Stefan said. “But for that I will need help.” He nodded to the High Shin. “From both of you.”

  “You bring this cataclysm down on our people and now you beg for assistance?” Elder Hurst shook his head, lips curled in disgust.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Stefan said, “but the Setian have lost more than anyone.” Even as he said those last words, he regretted them.

  Elder Hurst’s face darkened with a rage so intense, Stefan thought the man might attempt to attack him. If not for the High Shin’s presence as an intermediary, and the fact the Harnan followed Formist worship, which preached serenity, Stefan would have spurred his horse to avoid the Elder’s possible strike. As it was, Hurst muttered a prayer and calmed himself.

  “Words can’t convey how I feel.” Stefan hoped the man heard the sincerity in his voice. “This was never my intention. If the choice had been mine, I wouldn’t have ventured into Everland.”

  “There is always a choice,” Clarice said.

  “Simple enough to say when your family isn’t about to die,” Stefan said in bitter retort.

  “Why should we help you?” Elder Hurst drew rein next to the piled remains of children. “You caused all of this. Why should we not call our people back to the Nevermore … to the safety of the Stone?”

  Shuddering, Stefan averted his eyes from the corpses as a sudden picture of Anton and Celina among them formed in his head. He took a moment before he answered. When he did, he met the Elder’s pitiless gaze. “The Erastonians won’t stop until they suffer a defeat, but at least they are human. Retreating to the Nevermore will not save you. On the other hand, if Nerian wins,” he gestured toward the bodies without looking at them, “things will get worse. We must act now while there’s a chance to prevent further suffering for your people.”

  Elder Hurst peered all around him, a pained expression on his face. “Suppose I and my people agree, how do we win? We have been powerless to stop them and as yet the Svenzar have remained out of the conflict.”

  “We’ll beat them by using something they cannot anticipate.”

  The Elder frowned.

  “A good general doesn’t give away any secrets,” Stefan said. “Let’s just say it’s something no one has seen before.”

  “You expect me to believe this?”

  “I’m asking you to trust me. I too have lost many in all of this, and I still stand to lose much more.” Stefan stared Hurst in the eye. “What I propose is the only way.”

  “And that is?”

  “Once we show the Erastonians we’re capable of beating them, we then offer them an alliance against Nerian.” Stefan prepared himself for the outburst that would follow.

  To his surprise, Elder Hurst said, “Using the enemy of your enemy ….” The Harnan’s gaze swept toward the distant Nevermore Heights and the green slopes that appeared to bleed into the clouds. “Another man might seek only revenge, but I am not any other man, Lord Dorn. I understand the importance of survival.”

  “Then you agree?”

  Elder Hurst gave a long exhale. “Yes, but understand this … you must secure the one victory to give our people hope before we commit everyone.”

  “Praise Ilumni,” Stefan muttered under his breath.

  “Where do we start?”

  “Well,” Stefan nodded to High Shin Clarice, “that’s one of the reasons we came here. High Shin, is he still following?”

  “Yes,” Clarice said. “He crossed from the woods and is at the south end of town.”

  The Knight Commander wheeled his mount and slapped his reins, sending the horse bolting down the main avenue to their south. Ravens and crows flapped from his path, cawing their annoyance. Hair streaming behind him, he swept by homes, many of them little more than burnt shells with their doors hanging askew.

  Black flashed among the houses a few hundred feet away. It flitted between several structures before resolving into a man in the dark armor of an Erastonian. He was heading for the town’s outskirts in a dead sprint. His legs ate up the ground faster than Stefan’s horse galloped.

  Stefan flapped his reins harder, but the distance between him and the scout did not close. It increased.

  The Erastonian scout passed the last few homes and into the open field. Less than two hundred paces separated him from the towering evergreens of the Mondros Forest.

  Perfect. The Knight Commander drew rein, bringing his stallion to a grinding halt. He leaped off the saddle, snatching his bow as he did so. As he sought the calm of the Shunyata, he took an arrow from the quiver on his back. He nocked it, aimed, drew, and fired.

  Before the twang of the bowstring subsided, he shot again, several feet to the left. Then he loosed another arrow to the right.

  Stefan didn’t watch the arrows’ flight. He kept his gaze fixed on the Erastonian. “Left or right,” he said under his breath.

  The scout made a sudden dodge to his left. The first arrow missed, but the second one punched through the back of his thigh. The man cried out as he pitched forward into the grass.

  Knowing he had all the time in the world, Stefan slung his bow back onto his mount. From next to his saddle, he took a skinning knife. Torture wasn’t one of his favorite things, but the scout had information he needed.

  The Knight Commander took one more look at the corpses within Tobal. He took particular note of several flayed and nailed to the door of an inn. A tune called The Bitter Onion came to mind. It was a dark song that told of a man who sought revenge against those who took his family. Whenever he captured one, he set an onion beside them and peeled their skin from their bodies in imitation of the vegetable’s many layers. Stefan whistled the rhythm as he strode toward where the wounded scout was dragging himself through the field.

  CHAPTER 21

  “You have done well, Vencel,” Stefan said. “And you, Master Gavril.” He nodded to the Banai. “This is better than I expected.”

  “Is least I could do,” Gavril said. The bald–headed Banai spoke slowly in a garbled accent. He had a tendency to leave out some words. “You saved me from arena. Brought me home. I am in your debt.”

  Merchant Vencel shrugged. “Nerian ruined trade. Taxes are so high in Benez I don’t go there anymore. The other major cities are almost as bad and he’s taken a particular interest in the black market too. In times like these a man has to seek a new future.”

  Dressed in his usual silks, Vencel often made it seem riches were his only concern. Yet, he was more loyal and honorable than many soldiers.

  “It good doing this,” Gavril said. “Your men work long hours. They make good Banai.”

  Stefan laughed. Kasimir would cringe if he heard himself referred to as one of the short, bald–headed race. “Without you two, this wouldn’t be possible. All these years of breeding and training raised this many.”

  The two men puffed up with pride.

  “This day was a long time coming,” the Knight Commander added as he took in the vast, lush plains with their abundant orchids. He sniffled, suppressing another sneeze from the perfumed scents. In the distance to the east rose the Ost Mountains. They had chosen this location for the abundance of dartans and its remoteness at the edge of Banai territory.

  In the field below them was the focus of Stefan’s enthusiasm, pride, and hope. Dartans. Thousands of them, all with the spaces cut into their shells to allow a rider. Each of them trained to be more docile by the use of shocksticks, the Banai beast–taming methods, and breeding. That day, back in Seti at the arena, a plethora of ideas had come to mind when he saw what he’d dreamed of long ago: a dartan under control and used as a mount. Not only were the beasts faster than the Erastonians by far, but he’d tested them against the sharpest swords, even divya. It was near impossible to penetrate their armored skin or
the carapace on their back.

  Swords slashing at imaginary foes, spears jabbing, Kasimir and six thousand of Stefan’s men rode the animals, wheeling them in tight formations. Despite being twice or three times the size of a large horse, the beasts ran with speed and grace. Unlike riding a horse, there was no uncomfortable jounce. Their padded feet made little noise on the ground. In nondescript clothing, the soldiers hunkered down in the saddle within the cutout. The seat itself was a separate hump within the space to allow the men’s legs to drop to the side with their feet resting on notches carved from the shell. It had taken Stefan several months to learn to ride the creatures, and he thought himself decent at the task. His men made him appear clumsy.

  These dartans were the latest stock, not needing shocksticks to be controlled. He could picture a battle now, the dartans charging, barreling anyone from their path while their jaws tore into an enemy soldier’s flesh. Precise attacks from the riders finished the job. Mastering weapons atop the mounts would take additional work, but his men already had a good grasp for the technique.

  Stefan waved to Kasimir. The time had come to put their new mounts to a test.

  After days of hard riding northwest, that would have normally taken several weeks on horseback, they arrived at their destination—an encampment at a series of hills overlooking the meandering banks of the Tantua River where it split off to form the Kalin River. Moss hung like soggy, disheveled hair from the trees along the muddy banks of swampland. Stefan grimaced at the foul air’s taste that managed to drown out the mustiness of his three thousand strong dartan cavalry. At this time of year, the water should be flowing freely, but the recent lack of rain made that near impossible. In the distance farther north, a wall of gigantic evergreen trees marked the border of the Mondros Forest and Harnan territory.

  Banners depicting a mountain range ruffled in a breeze that did little to alleviate the day’s humidity or the smell. The flags dotted the sprawling encampment. Tall, gangly soldiers dressed in leather and cloth armor blanketed the undulating hilltops. Each wielded a long–hafted greataxe. Between their hair color, which ranged from sandy brown to russet, their size, and their mahogany skin tones, the men could have been chopped from the same tree. The last time Stefan had seen this many Harnan Stoneguards was in his campaign against them.