Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer

by Terry C. Simpson

  One more battle standard stood out in the midst of the Harnan Stonewall banners: the Tribunal’s Lightstorm. Three people, a female and two males, strode forward, separating themselves from the army. Stefan expected Elder Hurst and High Shin Clarice, but the last man was a surprise. Pathfinder Kaden’s armor and deadly stride were unmistakable.

  Stefan raised his hand as he slowed to a walk a few hundred feet from the army. Spreading to his sides and behind him, his cavalry followed his lead. “Stay a few steps behind, and no one speaks but me,” he said. Without waiting for the reply, he set off at a trot toward the Harnan and the High Shin.

  “Hail Elder Hurst and High Shin Clarice, Pathfinder Kaden,’ Stefan called as he drew rein in front of them.

  They acknowledged him with a slight tilt of their heads. Elder Hurst’s gaze roved over Stefan’s mount then shifted behind the Knight Commander. The Harnan’s graying brows rose, and he gave an appreciative nod. High Shin Clarice’s mouth hung open. After a moment, she snapped it shut. Kaden gave Stefan a respectful bow. The Knight Commander suppressed the urge to smile.

  “How close is the Erastonian force?” Stefan asked.

  “In a few moments, they will be topping the rise on the other side of the plains below,” answered Elder Hurst as he turned and pointed up the hill past his army.

  “And the Svenzar?”

  A pained expression overcame Elder Hurst. “They will not come. They said you refused their offer once and made an enemy of them. You must prove yourself now.”

  “Fair enough.” Stefan expected as much.

  “A–Are you certain this will work?” High Shin Clarice still seemed distracted by the dartans.

  Stefan kept his face expressionless, but smiled inwardly at her obvious nervousness concerning what he required of her and the other Ashishin. “When it does, will I have both your aid?”

  “You have my word,” Elder Hurst said without hesitation.

  The High Shin eyes widened at the quick response, but she quickly masked her reaction and said, “And mine.”

  “Have your men make way,” Stefan ordered. He snapped his reins and headed toward the hill’s crest.

  Crows and ravens darkened the sky, their caws masked by the thunder of boots and the blaring of war horns. A wave of Erastonians swept down the hill several thousand feet away. Their black armored mass seeped across the fields.

  Stefan knew their strategy. First came the rush of light–armored infantry with greatswords and spears, protected by whatever Forging their Matii employed. Several other waves would follow, including the plate wearing troops, the cavalry, and the Forgers themselves.

  Compared to the other armies he’d faced, this one was smaller, numbering maybe fifteen thousand. His men had already confirmed the information he pried from the Erastonian scout. The commander who led this force not only spoke Ostanian but was also said to be the greatest Erastonian war leader. Stefan had seen enough recounts of the man’s exploits to believe in his skill. This battle needed to end swiftly.

  Stefan kept his dartan cavalry out of sight, and he himself stood below the hilltop with only his head visible. Sword raised, he waited until the Erastonians reached the plains. As he expected, the next infantry rank crested the hilltop. He brought his sword down.

  Dartans bounded up the hill, past him, and down the other side, padded feet making rhythmic thuds as they built their pace. The first five hundred of Stefan’s cavalry galloped at about half speed. Moments later, the second wave, consisting of a thousand dartans began their charge, after giving the first rank time to gain distance. They would build to three quarters the dartan’s speed.

  The last cavalry rank came in two sections: the first one a thousand deep moving at a dead run. Behind them would come what made High Shin Clarice’s eyes widen—dartans with two seats carved into their shells. One of Stefan’s men occupied the front seat while an Ashishin sat in the rear. High Shin Clarice herself sat behind Stefan.

  Below, the charging dartans mewled. The drums from the Erastonians beat faster as the two sides closed. From Stefan’s vantage point, the impending clash resembled a black stream flowing down to swallow the grey trickle of the dartans. But his second wave was rapidly catching up to the first.

  Stefan gave the signal and the third cavalry rank bolted. By the time their mounts gained the field, they were at full gallop. Clarice hissed as Stefan brought his sword up and down again to send his line into the charge.

  The wind whipped at him as he bounded down the hill. Ahead, the battle unfolded.

  The first wave suddenly parted, peeling to either side moments before they could crash into the Erastonian infantry. Through the space sped the second wave, now at full speed.

  When the two sides collided, gray slammed into black. The Erastonian line crumpled like dry parchment.

  Stefan’s first wave then joined the melee, swinging swords. Blood flew and Erastonians died. Dartans snatched black–armored men from the ground and flung them into the air. Armor tore under crushing jaws and piercing fangs.

  By this time, the plate wearing Erastonians were charging across the field. Stefan’s cavalry wheeled and turned away as if to flee. They charged back toward him in a tight line, keeping the final charge hidden. The heavy Erastonian infantry was close behind. At the last moment, they made a precise split.

  In a wedge formation, Stefan’s third rank tore into the Erastonians with the same devastating effect. His first and second lines wheeled around the sides and closed the trap. The milling mass of Erastonians at the front struggled to escape the dartans, impeding the progress of the ones behind.

  A roar of voices announced the Harnan, who had used the riverbed to gain a flanking position, as they joined the attack. By the thousands, they streamed up from the moss–covered trees. The Pathfinders were among them, silver armor sullied by mud and grime. Where their divya blades struck, Erastonians perished.

  Sweeping down the line of dartans, Stefan goaded his five hundred on, knowing they needed to act before the Erastonian Matii engaged. Sweat pouring down his forehead; he picked out the Erastonian cavalry riding down the distant hill. Men in armor galloped ahead of Matii in robes.

  “Now,” Stefan shouted to Galiana.

  As his group rounded the edge of the battling mass, a bright light bloomed in the sky: the signal for the Ashishin to commence their attack.

  Lightning scoured the distant hillside. The ground exploded with the impact, its roar washing away the clash of steel. Erastonians, horses, dirt and stone flew.

  Loud thumps sounded behind Stefan. Balls of fire arched into the air and dropped among the enemy forces. The same attack repeated from every dartan carrying an Ashishin.

  The Erastonian Matii countered, eventually erecting a shield. Lightning and fire peppered its surface.

  Before the enemy Forgers began their attack, leather–clad Harnan Stoneguards appeared atop the hills behind them. They had come up from the Kalin River itself. They brought death with them.

  “So,” Stefan said to the Erastonian commander. “Guban, is it?”

  Guban nodded. The man’s hair was done in thick locks as if he once had braids he left untended. The same style coiled under his chin. Even without his armor, the Erastonian was twice as wide in the chest as Stefan and at least a foot taller. The fact he was on his knees made his appearance no less formidable.

  “Tell me why I should listen to anything you have to say? Without you, your King loses much of his momentum, why should I release you?”

  “I have a secret that is important to you,” Guban said. His eyes carried a hint of defiance despite the purple and black bruises and the bloody gash across his face. One hand was missing a finger and several nails.

  “I could have you tortured again.”

  “Ask your men how that has worked.”

  Stefan s
cowled. Not once had Guban cried out in pain or protested when put to the question. “What is so important about this secret?”

  “It is a means to begin freeing your people from this dark King’s grip.”

  “You have seen our new forces. We stand a better chance of beating you back now, or at least stopping your advance. With you gone, defeating Nerian is assured. Why would I give that up?”

  “Your King is stronger than you think. Like me, you value your freedom and your people.” Guban stared Stefan in the eye. “You are a man of honor. In this, we can help each other and ease the bloodshed. I have our King’s ear. He will listen to anything I suggest. I cannot guarantee he will agree, but he will listen.”

  A part of Stefan distrusted the Erastonian, but something about the man, his eyes, or his willingness to suffer made Stefan want to hear he had to say. “Go ahead then, tell me.”

  As Guban began his story, Stefan’s eyes widened.

  CHAPTER 22

  War horns ruptured the still, humid dawn in a long undulating bray. A cacophony of trumpets, barked orders, and frantic shouts echoed from outside Stefan’s pavilion. Fifteen years of refining their plan and of plotting came down to what he began today.

  Stefan sat up, grimacing at the poke of an offending sprig of grass through his blanket. Sleep gnawed at his restless bones as he struggled to his feet. The dying flame from the tent’s sole lamp glimmered woefully, providing just enough light for him to find and pick up his sword belt and scabbard. He buckled it on and touched his hilt.

  The weapon had saved him from shadeling assassins several times since the first night in Benez, alerting him to their presence with its vibrations. More often than not when he used the divya, he killed. He marveled at how he always sensed the sword. The caress at the back of his mind was a constant reminder of the bond.

  With a sigh at the longing to be with his family, he ran his hands down his clothing to smooth the rumples of his uniform. Sparing a moment, he kissed the pendant of Thania. Then, with as brisk a stride as his tired legs could manage, he headed for the tent’s slit for an exit. Waif–weak fingers of dawn’s light greeted him as he ducked through the flaps and stepped outside.

  The two Dagodin cadets appointed to guard his tent snapped to attention, shiny lances held high. Boots thudding in unison, soldiers were marching by in ordered formations, the Quaking Forest banners flying above them. Not far from those flew the Tribunal’s Lightstorm. Forest green Setian uniforms and armor stained and dusty, the troops followed the commands of the Knight Captains yelling ahead of them. His men knuckled their foreheads when they became aware of his presence. He acknowledged them with a stiff nod. They continued to file by, the younger recruits’ eyes shining with fervor; the veterans’ expressions either blank or of ice–hearted resolve.

  Shoulders sagging, Stefan expelled a breath. He didn’t deserve the faith his men placed in him all these years. They would die. Eventually. He should have become numb to that certainty after witnessing well over a half century of war. Of death. Of destruction. Making friends only to see them perish; grieving when members of his family joined the legions and died in battles he himself led. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the pain in his heart, the melancholy surrender when he witnessed the butcher’s bill. Not even after his most renowned victories.

  All of this for what? The whim of a power hungry king? The need to expand borders? The craving to resurrect an empire long dead? The vanity of a man deluded by visions of grandeur? A man tainted by darkness? Well, no more. Nerian’s schemes went beyond all moral standards and honor. What is a man without his honor? An empty shell to be filled by corruption. The plague eating at Nerian was blacker than a moonless night. Stefan was tired of watching men die, families shattered beyond repair for this cause, this abomination of an alliance Nerian had formed.

  Fifteen years. He sighed. Was it that long since I last saw Thania and the children? What does Anton look like now? Was he strapping and strong like me in my youth? Did the gods bless Celina with her mother’s beauty? Both would be eighteen now, a man and a woman grown. Would they even remember him? He’d given up what may have been his last chance at fatherhood for what? This? No. You gave up that chance for your children’s safety, for the freedom and livelihood of not only your men, but also your people. He gazed out to the horizon and the distant Erastonian advance, his expression twisting into a scowl.

  The dawn air brought no relief to the promise of another sweltering day of death. Pallid twilight pricked the sky where clouds massed like puffed mounds of gray ash, the occasional jolt of lightning illuminating their bloated underbellies. Heartbeats later, a distant peal of thunder followed. Stefan wiped at sweat already beading his forehead, his gaze following the rumble of tens of thousands of marching boots.

  Beneath the roiling storm, rank after rank of Erastonians swarmed the undulating Crescent Hills south of the Kalin River at the edge of Setian territory. Black blotted out the once green fields, now as barren as a diseased womb. Stefan’s forces had stripped them to keep supplied as well as to prevent the encroaching army from having any sustenance off the land they invaded. Every time lightning flashed, metal glinted amongst the advancing blackness. Above the horde, flags flew the gray fist enclosed around a black lightning bolt.

  AWOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOOO!

  The Erastonian horns continued to bellow doom, followed by drums rumbling in the distance as if the buglers had called down the thunderstorms boiling behind them. Stefan’s stomach knotted as he watched them slowly wash over the fields like a great wave of sewage. His recent victory over their forces did nothing to help. This army dwarfed that one.

  He stifled the urge to call for an immediate retreat and turned away. Duty was a burden, but one didn’t get to be Knight Commander without shouldering the load or by panicking. Today, his duty was more than any man should have to carry. Any sane man. Right now, two other concerns nattered for his attention.

  The first was his growling stomach. The second … well the second he would deal with while he ate. He prayed Guban’s information was wrong.

  Stefan inhaled deeply, the faint whiff of food bringing another grumble of protest. He savored the sweet aroma from lingering cook fires before the stench of the waste pits drowned them. He hawked and spat. The phlegm spattered on the dry ground, appearing wet for a moment before the parched earth swallowed the moisture.

  “Cadet Harvan, tell Knight General Kasimir to await my signal. Afterward, run fetch Knight General Garrick,” Stefan ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Harvan leaned his lance against the white canvas and ran off.

  Stefan had been surprised to find Garrick, scarred face and all, with a full cohort when he returned from his victory over the Erastonians. Apparently, the King sent him to help with the upcoming battle. Garrick had shown open displeasure at High Shin Clarice and her Ashishin cohort, voicing his opinion several times. A time existed when Stefan might have dismissed the man’s malcontent as part of his distrust for Forgers.

  From the small incline near his tent, Stefan studied his forces as they maneuvered into formations below, spreading to the south, banners flapping in the breeze. Forty–one Setian cohorts in all—four legions—two consisting of heavy foot, one of light foot, and the other contained the dartan cavalry. Three quarters of their number were Dagodin. Not as many as he wanted, but enough for now. The others were regular soldiers. Today, he would make sure the majority survived.

  A grimace passed across the Knight Commander’s face at the single cohort of Ashishin standing to one side. Use who and what you must. Like the rest, they waited, four hundred strong, garbed in crimson tunics and pants with colored diagonal stripes down the front. Their matching, hooded cloaks hung deathly still. The Lightstorm insignia highlighted the back of each cloak. At their head were several High Shin and Pathfinders. While the other legions milled and fidgeted, this formatio
n stood with an eerie, motionless silence.

  Satisfied with the preparations, Stefan strode to a nearby table laden with food. He heaped slices of quail breast, slabs of deer, and cheeses and fruits from bronze platters onto a plate. Then he poured himself a tin cup of watered kinai wine from one of several flagons. If he died today, he would do so with his belly full.

  “May Ilumni keep me strong to lead my men this day and the next,” he uttered in reverence, cup held up before him.

  The Knight Commander threw his head back and emptied the cup’s contents. Fire racing down his gullet, he scrunched up his face. Within moments, the slight weariness from days and nights with little sleep in preparation for this encounter seeped from his bones.

  A strong vibration against his leg reminded him of his sword’s presence and of the task ahead. His face curdled into an involuntary scowl before he casually rested his hand on the pommel. The vibration subsided until it became a near indiscernible thrum against his palm. Schooling his face to calm, he turned to the clink of armor.

  Knight General Garrick Nagel stood behind him, his dark hair giving off a brighter than usual sheen, his chest an oak’s trunk covered in silver armor filigreed with gold. Deep–set eyes of ebon steel stared back at Stefan in a scarred face hewn from granite. Garrick knuckled his forehead and bowed, but his eyes never strayed from the Knight Commander’s own. He strode next to Stefan.

  “Knight General Garrick,” Stefan held out a cup, “any word from the Scouts or Envoys?”

  Garrick’s eyes narrowed at the title. Stefan suppressed a small smile.

  “Not as yet, sir,” Garrick answered, his voice a rumble as if he spoke from deep within his chest. He took the cup with a slight nod of gratitude.