Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer

by Terry C. Simpson

  Stefan poured the Knight General a drink from his flagon. “Have the men feasted as I asked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kinai juice or wine?” Stefan’s stomach growled again; a reminder that he himself had not eaten in almost a full day.

  “Juice, General. They’ll have fervor and strength to spare.” Garrick downed the kinai in two gulps, his eyes narrowing with the first swallow.

  “Good, good.” Stefan stroked the prickly stubble under his chin. “You know what I say: If a man’s to die, he may as well do so on a full stomach. Better if he dies after making love to a woman. Unfortunately,” he pointed at their surroundings, “there are never enough women soldiers to go around.”

  Garrick scowled at the mention of female soldiers. Like many, he considered fighting a man’s job and women good only for tending home or bedding. “If you say so, sir.”

  The man had not always been a stoic one, but he became so ever since the day he almost died to the Erastonians. Garrick walked and talked but something else in him perished that day.

  “Time’s changing, Garrick,” Stefan said. “Either we change with it or get swamped under by the likes of them and worse.” Stefan gestured with his head toward the Erastonian army.

  Garrick shrugged. “Maybe, but women aren’t the answer.”

  “What’s the answer then?” Stefan asked. “Having their women train and fight alongside them have worked for the Erastonians. They easily outnumber any other force and their fighting prowess cannot be denied. Why won’t it work for us? How do we stop other kingdoms from following in their footsteps? The Astocans? The Cardians? We’re losing because of our ways. If we don’t explore every avenue, how do we win?”

  “With fire and steel, not soft womanly wiles. That has always been the Setian way.” Garrick spat to one side then gripped his sword hilt in a huge gauntleted fist. “Strike first and show no mercy. There’s no greater advantage than surprise and fear.”

  “Sometimes, sometimes, indeed,” Stefan said while stroking his beard, “but there has to be other ways that don’t require killing. How long will we continue to ravage the land we intend to live in? What will we leave for our families?”

  Garrick’s lips curled. “This is war. You fight and you die. It’s your kind of think—” He stopped mid–sentence as Stefan arched an eyebrow.

  “It’s fine.” Stefan smiled, but didn’t let the expression touch his eyes. “I know. It’s my kind of thinking that’s made the Setian and Ostania as a whole, soft. I have heard it before.” Sword thrumming against his palm, he picked out a slab of quail with his other hand and began to chew, his gaze on Garrick.

  The war horns blared again as if to remind them they still had a battle to fight. Drums rumbled their response. Out on the Crescent Hills, the Erastonians had finally drawn to a halt. They covered the plains completely, not a patch of brown earth showing among their ranks.

  Stefan eyed his dartan cavalry as they wheeled into position. “I can give you one of the new mounts if your leg can handle riding.”

  Garrick flinched so slightly Stefan almost missed it. “No. They don’t take to me or my men.”

  “Oh?”

  Despite their location off to one side, the dartans swung their necks and kept their attention on Garrick’s cohort. The animals’ mewls were indiscernible from the drums, horns, marching feet, and jangle of armor, but their open mouths and swaying heads spoke of displeasure.

  “I think they’re too used to your men. Does the King know about them?” Garrick’s brow wrinkled.

  “Not yet,” Stefan said. He licked grease from his finger. “I wanted to wait to see how they fared in a battle before I reported their use.”

  “And the Ashishin?” Garrick spat to the side again.

  “Nerian won’t be pleased, but we needed to try something new. Even he can understand that after so many losses.”

  Garrick grunted. “Do you wish to go over the plans with the Captains or address the men again, sir?”

  “Neither,” Stefan answered. “Like you said, this is war. We fight and we die. Even outnumbered five to one. No need to talk them to death is there?”

  Gaze focused on the Erastonian horde, Garrick shrugged.

  Delicately, now. Stefan tilted his cup. “Can you bring me another flagon, please?”

  Garrick strode over to the pitchers of kinai wine at the table’s far end.

  “You should eat.” Stefan picked up a slice of deer and tossed it into his mouth, chewing but not tasting. “After all, we might die today.”

  The look on the Knight General’s face gave a subtle shift to confusion before he smoothed his features. He plunked down the flagon next to Stefan. “I’m not hungry, sir. I just want to get on with the battle. Wipe these arrogant fools from the world.”

  Stefan glanced out among his legions, noting the shift in Kasimir’s troops. He finished the last of his deer then wiped his hand on his tunic before responding to Garrick. “You know my policy, Garrick. No man under my command fights on an empty stomach. Should they fall, I will have them go the gods well fed. So, is it that you aren’t hungry or that you know you won’t die today?”

  Knight General Garrick stiffened. “I’m always prepared to die.”

  “Good. Then die.” Stefan drew his sword and struck.

  Garrick barely managed a half–choked shriek.

  Stefan’s blade, still vibrating, sliced through the Knight General’s neck with a faint hiss. Blood spurted in a black geyser. Mouth agape, Garrick’s head tumbled from his shoulders. The sword’s vibration abruptly died.

  As the head spun through the air, the illusion shattered, and a transformation began. Elongated lupine jaws, rows of sharp fangs, a lolling tongue, and stiff, black fur replaced Garrick’s face.

  The black–furred wraithwolf’s head landed on the ground with a thud.

  CHAPTER 23

  A tear trickling down his face, Stefan spat on the corpse. “Burn the body.” He gestured to Cadet Destin who stood with his mouth unhinged. “Now!”

  Destin jumped before dropping his lance and running down the hill toward a line of torches at its base.

  The clang of steel on steel followed by the cries and screams of the dying drew Stefan’s attention to his men. Surrounded, the legion Knight General Garrick had commanded struggled against the other Setian.

  Divya blades rose and fell in flashes. Kasimir had been able to arm every Dagodin loyal to their cause with the weapons.

  The battle raged on. Shields parried and blocked. Swords stabbed and sliced. All moving in synchronous motions as they’d been taught. At this distance, to an untrained eye, the melee appeared more like chaos.

  Behind the milling mass of Garrick’s forward infantry, transformations took place. Green armor rippled and fell to the ground. In place of men were dark–furred wraithwolves, many reaching seven feet. They stood on two legs, threw their snouts to the sky, and released blood–chilling howls. Stefan wished he had scorpios.

  Mingled between the beasts and those who were mere men was another sort of creature. These flowed like black smoke made flesh. Blades darker than their billowing countenances sliced through the attacking soldiers as if their armor was wrought from paper instead of steel and iron. Stefan’s eyes narrowed.

  Darkwraiths. Gods be good.

  Quickly, he dashed the kinai wine from the flagons onto the wraithwolf’s corpse. Where’s Destin with the blasted light? He whirled to the sound of approaching feet and snatched the torch from Destin’s outstretched hand. As he tossed the firebrand at the remains, Stefan stepped back. A whoosh followed, and the black–furred body burst into flames. Heat spilled forth in a shimmering wave. Stefan shielded his face from the conflagration.

  A trumpet blared—part of the plan he and Kasimir had devised. The dirge repeated
.

  The remaining Setian infantry fell back from the two types of shadelings and the soldiers who stood with them. A lull passed across the battlefield for the barest of seconds as the two opposing forces split apart, a space a few feet wide between them. Then a wraithwolf screeched—a skin crawling, high–pitched sound like metal squealing on metal—and its counterparts echoed the cry.

  Stefan covered his nose and mouth from the stench of burnt hair and cooking flesh and peered toward the crimson–garbed Ashishin who moments before had stood unmoving and silent. They strode forward, shoulder to shoulder, in perfect, unnerving symmetry.

  Gigantic balls of fire formed in front of them as if they’d ripped several suns from the sky. A moment later, the fireballs shot forward, blazing a trail as they flew to explode into the shadelings with a roar. At the same time, the earth came alive in a rolling wave of stone, tossing the beasts from their feet. The wails among them became plaintive cries.

  Looking glass to his eye, Stefan licked his lips as the Ashishin, their faces furrowed with concentration, halted, gazes riveted on the traitors and the shadelings. He craved to reach out and open his Matersense as they Forged the essences around them, but he knew better. The very thought brought a shiver to his bones with the memory of the ethereal voices that seemed to call to him when he’d been in training so long ago.

  A deafening rumble jarred him back to the present.

  Where once there had been a stretch of plains occupied by the shade’s minions, there was now a gaping rent in the earth like a mouth full of jagged teeth. Screams ensued. Above the lip of the gash, both darkwraiths and wraithwolves appeared in empty air, claws and shrouded hands grappling for purchase. They crashed into an unseen barrier before falling from sight.

  Lightning flashed down from the ashen sky into the hole. First one, then two, then an incandescent flurry of bolts scoured the pit. No thunder followed, but there came another roar, this one muted. Flames spurted up from the crevasse, licking at its lips in hungry tongues. The blaze lit up the morning, burning away the earlier gloom.

  Screeches and shrieks resounded in a cacophony of despair and death. Pillars of greasy smoke rose into the air, only to be swept away by a sudden gust of wind that also increased the pitch and length of the wails. The gale carried a stench akin to piles of cooking, rotten meat.

  Then, all was silent.

  AWOOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOOOO!

  The Erastonian war horns shattered the moment before a single Setian raised their sword in triumph or cheered. Out on the hilly plains, a full legion separated from the main enemy force. The obsidian line swept down the hill. Drums thudded in a beat to match the march of a few thousand booted feet.

  Stefan’s legions turned their backs to the pyre blazing not far from them. A trumpet blared again. This time only once. The Setian answered the call by reforming into precise cohorts as they marched to meet the Erastonian threat. His new cavalry detached itself from the position it had maintained well to the rear and began to trot forward—four thousand sets of padded feet noiseless on the ground.

  “Bring me my mount,” Stefan ordered without looking at Destin. “The new one.”

  Slowly, the tempo of the drumbeats increased until they built into a fast–paced rhythm. The Erastonians disappeared below a dip in the land and moments later showed up at the crest. Stefan frowned at their numbers.

  From this distance, they appeared to be advancing at a slow rate, but he knew better. Renowned for their stamina, the dark–skinned, sinewy Erastonians could run for miles nonstop, and under the influence of their divya armor, maintain a speed faster than any other race. These soldiers were doing just that, and from the ground they covered, they were charging in a dead sprint. What was Guban playing at?

  The Setian cavalry’s pace increased. The soldiers in the saddles carved into the shells of the beasts were a mere blot against the massive, humped forms that belied the speed at which they traveled.

  A trumpet announced an advance.

  Stefan’s infantry moved as one in a slow jog, the clink of heavy armor accompanying their movement. Behind them, the Ashishin stood, cloaks swirling about them with the wind that suddenly rose in a howl.

  Destin arrived leading the mount by its chain reins. Short tail swinging, the dartan bared pointed teeth and uttered a pitiful mewl in the direction of Garrick’s charred remains. The beasts not only disliked shadelings but also possessed an ability to sense them. Its head swung around at a rumbling down on the battlefield.

  Stefan followed its gaze to see the earth cave in on the death pit. Dirt and debris piled into the hole as if gigantic shovels dumped their contents. Wisps of smoke petered up followed by dusty bursts whenever a dirt mound spilled into the chasm.

  Guarding against the possibility any shadeling survived, ten Ashishin stood sentinel near the hole while another twenty buried what was left of the slaughter. The remainder of their cohort followed behind Stefan’s infantry. To either side of the foot rode the dartan cavalry in long lines, having split their legion in two. The silver armor of Stefan’s Knight Generals and Knight Captains stood out as they crossed in front of the ranks, barking orders.

  “Your mount, sir,” Destin said, the reins held out in a shaky hand, sweat trickling down his face, his eyes wide as he regarded the dartan.

  Stefan understood the man’s fear. The dartan was twenty–two hands tall and its snake–like neck swung from side to side as it sniffed the air. It tried to take a step toward the wraithwolf’s corpse, the smell of fresh meat no doubt drawing the beast. When Destin tugged on the reins to draw it back, the dartan showed its teeth and nipped at his hand. The Cadet snatched his arm away.

  “I’ll take it from here.” Stefan took the reins and yanked them tight against the beast’s jaws.

  The dartan mewled once more and straightened.

  “T–thank you, sir.”

  Stefan regarded the young man who averted his eyes. He remembered when he was young like Cadet Destin, aspiring to be greater than the sum of his parts with dreams of the glory of battle. Those dreams died during a campaign when he was one of the few who’d survived their foray into Banai lands. It had been their first encounter in Nerian’s plan to build an empire. Here he was, years later, about to watch more men die. Death’s always simple. We spend our entire lives dying. Wasn’t that what King Nerian always said? Stefan clenched his fist at the thought of his former friend and King.

  “Thank you, Cadet Destin.” Stefan masked the strain of his voice for the Cadet’s sake. “You have done well.”

  Destin gave a timid smile and bowed.

  Reins in hand, Stefan used the handholds carved into the sides of the dartan’s shell to climb up and slipped onto the seat cut into the shell. His insides twisting in knots, he flapped the chains and headed toward his army.

  As he rode, the Disciplines came to mind. Demand discipline by showing mastery of self. Demand they overcome after you prevail. Demand bravery by overcoming your fear. Demand strength by conquering your weakness.

  Back straight and head held high as he schooled himself to calm, he jerked the beast into a gallop. The day was not yet done. There might yet be more death.

  CHAPTER 24

  Stefan caught up to his soldiers as they reached the hilltop overlooking the plains where the Erastonian army massed. Armor clinked and leather creaked as men saluted, their gazes following his path between their ranks. He tugged on his reins, bringing the dartan to a sharp halt ahead of the rest of the army and next to Knight General Kasimir.

  “Sir.” Kasimir gave a slight dip of his head. “Did he—”

  “He’s gone.” Stefan sighed, fighting against the heaviness in his heart. They’d both lost a friend. “He’s been dead ever since the massacre in Everland.”

  Expression grim and eyes watery, Kasimir nodded.

  “Cavalry re
ady?” Stefan asked. He would show no more remorse in what he’d been forced to do. Those creatures were no longer his men.

  “As ready as they’ll ever be.” Kasimir rapped a gauntleted fist on his dartan’s shell.

  “Good.”

  Several thousand feet and a few low hills ahead of the main force, the Erastonian cohort that had broken off stood in a motionless black snake of leather–armored men. The drums and horns stopped.

  “You think they’ll parley?”

  Stefan grunted. “Their commander agreed to this. His example of good faith was the information on Garrick or rather, the shadelings that replaced Garrick and the others.”

  “Do you trust him? He might have told you anything to escape death.”

  “He didn’t lie about Garrick, did he?”

  “He wasn’t doing us any favors,” Kasimir said. “With the shadelings dead, their army won’t have to face them in addition to us. Worse, by watching our skirmish, he no doubt realizes how many Matii we possess. We—”

  “I made an agreement with the man.”

  “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but maybe we should have waited on killing the shadelings. Combined with our Ashishin—”

  “No matter how dire things appear, I won’t turn to the shade for help, Kasimir. The shade is to be destroyed, period.”

  Kasimir hesitated for a moment. “But we could have turned on the shadelings afterward. I mean, we’re using Ashishin and Harnan now. Think of it the same way. The creatures would be another tool for us to use and discard. If what Guban said is true, and the King’s with them, we could end this war or at least change the outcome.”

  Stefan allowed the Knight General’s words to wash over him, resisting the urge to give in to his anger. “I’m not Nerian,” he said softly.”I won’t throw away my honor or turn to the shade. You don’t see the bigger picture, Kasimir. Who knows what adjustments they made to our small victory, but seeing the dartans will give them pause. Doubt is what we need.”