Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Yes.” Cerny peered at him over his bulbous nose. “An eagle arrived earlier today. The message said you reached Karsten near death … and alone.” His eyebrows rose questioningly.

  “I did.” Stefan kept his face stoic but questions abounded. If the Cerny knew he left from Karsten, then he was aware of Stefan’s Dagodin escort. Why not ask after them?

  “Defeat then.” Voice low but not quite a whisper, almost as if he was rolling the word around on his tongue, Cerny raised his hairless brows.

  “Yes,” Stefan said, allowing his shoulders to slump and holding his head down for a moment.

  “I think the King may have expected it, as did I.” Cerny’s tone carried the hint of a gloat.

  “I guess that explains the numbers Nerian appears to be sending to the front.” Stefan wheeled his dartan to face the Travelshaft. He counted at least ten separate legions. Among them there were six made up entirely of Alzari. Several cohorts of men and women in flowing gold and green robes led them. The number of High Alzari was nothing less than astounding.

  “He reacted a bit … angrily to your apparent defeat in the field. I suggest you soothe his temper.”

  For the briefest moment, Stefan considered ignoring the man again. Instead, he said, “My ability to influence Nerian disappeared when I begged away from leading the first assaults into Erastonian territory.”

  “I’ll pray to the gods for you then,” Cerny said.

  Brows raised, Stefan cocked his head to one side to regard the General. “Things are that bad?”

  Cerny let out a deep breath and nodded. “Worse. One of my men overheard the King saying you should have died with your men.”

  And you tried to fulfill the King’s wish by sending the assassins in the Travelshaft, didn’t you? Stefan shrugged. “It won’t be the first time he’s threatened my life over the last few years. Certainly won’t be the last.”

  “I guess.” Cerny peered around as if gauging the distance between the King’s Guard and them. “But,” he whispered under his breath. “If you should need my help in securing a way—”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Stefan said, cutting the man off. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your suggestion to myself.”

  Cerny gave Stefan a slight bow. “Then let’s not keep the King waiting.”

  Smiling inwardly at Cerny’s sullen expression, Stefan slapped his reins and sent the dartan trotting up the cobbled road. The King’s Guard didn’t need to clear a path for him as the sight of the dartan created ample room. He yearned to rush off and have his family start their exodus, but the King had given him little choice but to attend to him first. Somehow, he needed to get word to Thania. The chances of leaving Nerian’s presence alive seemed more uncertain now than ever.

  He crested the hill, pushing his chest out to make himself appear to ride with all the pomp necessary for a General, even a defeated one. The dartan’s massive size added to the effect. Behind him, hooves drummed a constant dirge. The thought of Cerny’s escort almost made his shoulders sag, but he refused to show any weakness. Part of him was still Stefan the Steadfast.

  Across the wide valley, Benez’s gray edifices rose before the soaring, black feldspar walls. From the small dwellings within the slums to the larger buildings, the city’s structures wound their way up the valley and onto the mountainous slopes upon which the Royal Palace was built. The Palace itself sparkled with the evening sunlight. What may wait inside sent a chill through his bones.

  Fifteen years.

  Alongside the road, travelers pointed at Stefan and his escort. Others made way for their passage, keeping their heads down and eyes averted. Stefan frowned. The Setian he remembered were a proud, happy people, always walking with their heads up, pride for their soldiers evident. Even the ones who were lesser off. The expressions now were often grim, hateful. More than one person spat as they rode by. Many shuffled, backs bowing under the weight of belongings they carried. The wagons held up along the road were bursting to overflowing with both people and personal items. The press of unwashed bodies reeked. For the first time, Stefan noticed soldiers searching some of the wagons and at times carrying off the owners or walking away with young men under guard, their mothers wailing in protest.

  Stefan slowed until he rode alongside Cerny. “What’s happening?” He nodded toward the young men.

  “The King needs recruits in order to take on the Erastonians. He recently passed a new law. Every able–bodied male must serve in the army.”

  “What?”

  Cerny shrugged. “King’s orders.”

  “Not everyone is born to fight, Cerny. What the King is doing is—”

  “I understand,” Cerny said, nodding, “but if I were you, I’d keep those thoughts to myself. Of course, I could pass on your sentiments if you would like?” His eyebrows rose inquisitively, and he rubbed at his nose, his lips twitching ever so slowly into a cruel smile.

  “No, if I need to, I’ll speak to him.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are all these people fleeing Benez?”

  “They’re trying to. Most aren’t allowed to leave, at least not before inspection. The King believes the Erastonians have infiltrated among us. The dungeons overflow with suspects.” Cerny sounded almost pleased by the prospect and the gleam in his eye said as much.

  Stefan ground his teeth. Rumors had reached him of how bad life had become, but this was terrible. Something else drew his attention. There was tenseness to the air, a poised readiness, like a rockslide waiting for the one boulder, the one weakness to send the stones tumbling. While some people did appear cowed or resigned to whatever fate would befall them, others seemed ready to attack, fists clenched around anything resembling a weapon. Often it was their hands balled into fists, but that was the extent of their protests. The gestures gave him hope. There might be a way other than fleeing after all.

  First, he had to convince Nerian only a few survived against the Erastonians and that Garrick’s entire legion perished. A tall order if there ever was one. The occasional vibration from his sword when some soldier passed close or the mewl of his dartan toward one person or another lent to his sense of dread.

  For all intents, he’d known this trip might be a suicide mission.

  CHAPTER 30

  By the time they reached the city’s walls, evening sun had given way to twilight and that had surrendered to dusk. Denestia’s twin moons had risen, shining sentinels so large they gave the illusion they were within reach. Shadows elongated, covering the land in creeping fingers. Stefan and his escorts were the last allowed through the gates before the enormous metal structures rumbled shut, black slamming on black. The steady stream of people attempting to flee Benez had continued until the gates closed and soldiers denied any further passage. Travelers along the road bedded down wherever they were, not giving up on their quest for freedom.

  Torches lit the wide–cobbled King’s Road, their light pooling on the huddled forms of those who’d bundled up against the night’s chill. As was the norm, the temperature within the valley, and in Seti in general, varied to one extreme or the other, with daylight often bringing sweltering heat and the night, a bone–chilling cold. For Stefan, his years away from Seti on the campaign almost made him succumb to the change. He clenched his jaw to combat the cold and give his body a chance to adjust.

  Thoughts preoccupied by worry for his family, Stefan studied his surroundings. The slums, he expected to be in disarray, but they extended farther into the city than ever before. Garbage, the stench of old feces, and clogged sewer drains permeated the air. The city’s neglect was shocking. Not only did refuse line the streets, and a god–awful reek filter from the sewage system, but many buildings were in disrepair. Once prosperous inns were shuttered and dark. What music tinkled through the night was muted and melancholy. If the people outside appeared dreary and
downtrodden, those along the road were corpses, eyes blank, expressions dead.

  What, in Ilumni’s name, has become of my beloved city? Even as he asked the question, Stefan knew. The touch of shadelings was sucking the life from the living.

  Soldiers patrolled by constantly, prodding one person or another with their tasseled spears, ordering them to move along before curfew set in. As one such guard put it, ‘Either huddle a bundle, get off the road, or take a blade to the gut. Your choice.’ The rule seemed to be no movement along the streets after a certain hour or face the dungeons or worse.

  With the clop of their horses’ hooves and snorts playing accompaniment, they ascended into the Upper City. Stefan fought hard to ignore the steady string of vibrations from his weapon. Several times, he resorted to yanking tight on his dartan’s reins to dissuade it from attacking a person. The sights here were as depressing, with more than one notable villa now overrun with creepers and vines, their previously manicured gardens choked with weeds. Dust and debris blew along once pristine flagstones.

  The few nobles out, who would be dressed in extravagant clothes, all wore darker colors. They pulled their cloaks tight around them, and kept their hoods up as they too hurried, averting their eyes from Cerny and the Kings’ Guard. The way the nobles appeared to be in a rush and often made nervous peeks toward the guards, it was obvious the curfew applied here as well.

  On more than once occasion, when his sword reacted, the person in question gave an almost reverent bow to Cerny and practically ignored Stefan. The dartan ensured they kept a safe distance. Stefan made note of every face he encountered during such occurrences.

  Up ahead the Royal Palace loomed, dreary and foreboding. The effect wasn’t simply from nightfall. The walls themselves appeared darker, not the near shining white Stefan remembered. Slowly spreading with night’s advent, like some black creature encroaching on the lamps and torchlight, shadows clung to every crack, crevice, overhang, battlement, and murder hole.

  To Stefan’s surprise, a smaller than usual guard contingent kept watch along the colonnade leading to the stairs and wide entrance. Whereas the King once had several dozen servants greet visitors, only two did so, taking the reins of Stefan’s and Cerny’s mounts. The eyes of the one that took the dartan’s chains flickered fearfully. With a few words, Stefan reassured the servant the mount would be fine, warning him not to tie it near the horses. The King’s Guard dismounted and tethered their horses on nearby posts. Not saying a word, Cerny waited patiently.

  Expressions somber, their boots echoing in the spacious courtyard, the King’s Guard marched over to meet them. As they drew closer, Stefan’s sword began a slight thrum. He rested his hand on the weapon, and the sensation subsided. They lined up five on each side, one row in front Cerny, and the other ahead of Stefan, and marched up the stairs.

  The gigantic metal doors, at least twelve feet tall, inched open. Light pooled out from the interior to meet that of the torches hanging next to the entrance. Creaking on hinges as if they hadn’t been oiled in ages, the doors swung inwards to reveal Kahar with his hood thrown back, silver and green eyes glinting.

  “You men take to your patrols,” Cerny ordered. “If I have need of you, I’ll send for you.”

  The King’s Guard bowed and turned stiffly to obey the command.

  Behind Kahar stretched the main hall lined by pillars with lamps in sconces.

  Cerny coughed into his gloved hand. “After you, the King—” He cut off when Kahar’s eyes shifted in his direction.

  The prospect of accompanying Kahar almost made Stefan cringe, but he squared his shoulders and stepped inside. Cerny joined him and the doors groaned shut.

  Stefan tried his best not to contemplate how they closed without Kahar touching them. Instead, he focused on a distant point down the hallway to give off the impression he was staring the bodyguard in the eye. Kahar turned and strode away; silky movements making it appear as if his feet never touched the carpeted floor.

  A slow breath escaped Stefan’s mouth, but his relief was short–lived as the pungent stench of rot and moldy fur made him cough. A sudden clamminess crept down his spine at the scent he recognized.

  Wraithwolf.

  His hand slid down to the comfort of his sword’s hilt. Coupled with the carpet’s stink, which reeked as if it had been wet but not cleaned in months, if not years, the long hall began to feel constrictive despite it being at least fifteen feet wide. With his other hand, Stefan loosened his collar trying to make it easier to breathe. Not once did Cerny react to the foul odor.

  As they walked, Stefan kept his gaze shifting from the side to side into any shadowed alcove or corner. He started at what he thought was a flurry of movement only to realize it was a trick of the capering flames within the lamps when they played off the images of men, beasts, and battles on the many paintings and tapestries or off the statues along the hall. At any moment, he expected the shadelings the King employed to leap into the open and tear him limb from limb, but none did. In fact, not once did he notice so much as a guard by the time they traveled the length of the hall.

  “You should not have returned,” Kahar said as they entered an antechamber. Despite the palace’s emptiness and silence, the man’s voice lacked an echo.

  “Why is that? I always return to the King, regardless of what happens.” Stefan’s voice reverberated.

  “You were defeated. Again.”

  Stefan shrugged, trying to appear braver than he felt. “Was this loss so different than the others? The Erastonians are stronger foes than Nerian anticipated.”

  Kahar said nothing.

  They passed into a large room decorated with cushioned benches and chairs. The stark desolation of the castle only added to the chill that had crept into Stefan’s bones upon reaching Benez. He wanted to hug himself. Instead, he drew the cloak tighter around him, making certain to keep the material clear of his sword.

  “The Erastonians are not half as strong as they think,” Kahar finally said when they entered another antechamber. “In another time and place, you would have defeated them.”

  Stefan bristled at the remark. “You mean if the King had bothered to give me the best of his Alzari or fought them in full force. Why would he let his armies face defeat after defeat?”

  “Why indeed? Did the King not tell you about the hope, the belief he gained when he saved the Unvanquished?”

  Stefan growled under his breath at the mention of the name. “He didn’t save them. He killed them. Now look what’s become of Benez. The people are without hope. They’re fleeing. The soldiers themselves, all but the Alzari, appear as if they expect the end any day now.”

  “The end is soon, but not the one many expect.”

  “Nerian can’t hope to win against the odds he faces. The Erastonians, the Felani, the Svenzar, the Tribunal’s Ashishin with an allied Granadia at their back. He must—”

  “You sound as if you side with them,” Cerny interrupted.

  In his mounting anger, Stefan had forgotten about the man. “No. I sound as if I have some sense.”

  “Whatever happened to the man who believed he could not lose?” Kahar asked. “The man who followed the Disciplines? The man who believed in perseverance?”

  A twinge of sadness crept through Stefan. “He died,” he whispered.

  Cerny chuckled.

  “We both know the dead can be reborn.”

  Stefan missed a step. What did Kahar mean by that? Could he know …?

  They entered the last hallway and the long stretch before the throne room. Kahar stopped and faced Stefan. Heart thumping in his chest, Stefan met the man’s silver–flecked gaze, not flinching once. Demand bravery by overcoming your fear.

  “What happened with Garrick and his men was a warning to you that you could do no more here,” Kahar said, face blank. “The Svenzar tr
ied to warn you off, but you still would not listen. So no, I do not believe Stefan the Undefeated, Stefan the Steadfast is dead. He stands here before me, a living example of what a man who lives and breathes the Disciplines can become. You stand before me defiant, facing me down even though you know I am more than what I appear to be. You worked for years now to find a way to save your people, to defeat Nerian. Your presence here is proof of who you are.”

  “What—” Cerny blurted. He took several steps back.

  Stefan reached for his sword.

  Kahar’s hand on his stopped him. He never saw the bodyguard move. “That will be of no help here. Do not attempt to draw on whatever meager power it gave you over the years. The divya was not meant for you but another. You are simply its carrier for now.”

  No matter how much he strained, Stefan could not break free of Kahar’s hold. The man seemed not to exert any pressure, but his hand held fast all the same. Finally, Stefan gave in with a nod and relaxed.

  Kahar leaned in closer. He had no scent. “Have faith in yourself. Ilumni will show you the way,” he whispered.

  Stefan frowned at the bodyguard’s words. “Have you told any of this to the King?” he asked, matching Kahar’s pitch.

  “No, but King Nerian has a way of perceiving things. He always has. Not many can hide what they do from him.”

  “So what is it that you want?”

  “For you to live … as you must. This is why I do not understand why you chose to return.”

  Stefan stared Kahar in the eye, his face becoming a mask of its own. “Because I have a people to defend. A wife, a son, and a daughter to save.”

  The corner of Kahar’s lips twitched. He bowed. “Go. Save them then. They are in the throne room. But remember two things. Do not draw your sword against him, and no matter what he offers, no matter what you see or think you see, do not willingly give it to him. The weapon is your family’s birthright.” He turned and strode back the way they came, the door closing behind him of its own volition.