The Shadowbearer (aegis of the gods)

by Terry C. Simpson

  Original. Stefan nodded, quite impressed by the creativity. The staging of the god was sure to win a prize at the contests later in the evening.

  Stefan rolled his eyes at the blocked streets ahead and turned down one of the side lanes. This one wasn’t as crowded, but he needed to make another detour as it became more congested. Soon, he gave up riding altogether, choosing instead to dismount. After a bit, he left his horse at one of the few stables still open during the festivities. Weaving his way through the throngs became easier, and as he drew nearer to the Palace, the crowds lessened.

  Lamps and torches lit the streets now as the sun had fled the sky leaving the pallid light of Denestia’s twin moons as the night’s herald. Up ahead, a staging blocked off an avenue. Rather annoyed now, Stefan cut down one of the few small alleys in the Upper City. Save for four inebriated revelers cavorting down the road, the alley was conspicuously empty. The three men and one woman waved to Stefan, laughing and singing in god-awful tones.

  The revelers were within six feet of him when his sword gave off a subtle vibration. He frowned and touched the weapon’s hilt to make sure of the sensation. An attempt to remember where he experienced it before proved fruitless. In the next two steps, the sword thrummed against his palm so hard that he swore it wanted to leap from the scabbard of its own volition.

  A scuff of a boot moving stealthily. The sound was too purposeful for a bunch of drunks. By instinct, he ducked. A blade sliced the air vacated by his head.

  “Do not allow him to draw,” a guttural voice said.

  The words were like a gargle of spittle deep within a throat, more growl than speech. A hand clamped onto Stefan’s wrist with frightening power. Stefan stared down into a chiseled face with glittering coals for eyes. The man grinned. Stefan’s nose twitched at the fetid stench rolling off the would-be assassin.

  Aided by the speed and strength from his touch on the divya, Stefan’s hand darted to his left hip. He whipped out his dagger from its sheath. In the same motion, he sliced down and across the hand restraining his own. There was a surprised yip, followed by a snarl. The man’s grip loosened.

  The sword still vibrated like a madly beating heart. Stefan whipped his hand out and spun as the other three attackers attempted to assist their accomplice. Instead of whirling to escape, he used his momentum to bring himself into the first man. Eyes widening in surprise, the chisel-faced man didn’t have a chance to move as Stefan stabbed. The sword punctured his assailant’s gut. Stefan ripped up. Warm bowels gushed onto his hand and uniform.

  The man grunted and a dying breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Stefan kicked him off and stumbled backward to make space for the other three assassins.

  A choked howl issued from the man he’d gutted. Stefan’s gaze flitted from the three accomplices to the form thrashing on the cobbles, fluids leaking from the gashed stomach. The man’s eyes changed to a glowing, feral green.

  What in Amuni’s name?

  The stench hit Stefan more powerfully then, rolling in waves. Rot. Decay. Moldy fur. The pungent smell of a wraithwolf.

  Shadelings? Here in Benez?

  Around his twisted face, the dying man’s flesh sloughed off. Black fur replaced tan skin. His clothes writhed and stretched. The assassin was changing, growing, transforming. Ripping cloth accompanied bulging muscles as shirt and tunic tore. Gangly arms stretched down past the knees, ending in black-nailed claws twice the span of a normal man’s hand. The mouth and nose elongated into a dark muzzle lined with canines. The head thrashed once more, a puppy-like whimper escaped the beast’s jaws, and then it lay still.

  Paralyzed by the transformation, Stefan stared openmouthed at the prone form of the seven-foot wraithwolf. From the corner of his eye came a flash of movement.

  A fist crashed into his face with a force akin to someone picking up a flagstone and slamming it into his jaw. Something cracked. Lights danced across his vision. Blood filled his mouth with a bitter taste. Stefan stumbled to one side, swinging his sword wildly before him.

  A growl rumbled from a few feet away, sending chills down his spine. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his sight. Vision still blurry, he picked out the shadowy forms of his six … no … nine … no …. The images merged into the three remaining assailants before doubling and tripling then becoming one again.

  One hand on his broken, throbbing jaw, blood a roar in his ears, Stefan retreated until he rested against a wall. In front, two of the assassins snapped their heads back and howled. With that action, their clothes tore from their bodies to reveal fur instead of skin. Wraithwolves’ leering muzzles replaced human faces. The nauseating stink of death and corruption accompanied the transformations.

  Desperately, Stefan sought the Shunyata. If he was going to die, he would do so fighting and take some of the beasts with him. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he gained the Shunyata’s calm deep inside himself and frowned. Why hadn’t the woman changed?

  Obsidian fur rippling, eyes malignant green pools, the two wraithwolves stalked to each side as if they had all the time in the world. Stefan’s sword vibrated so hard, it jarred his palm. The woman, face painted in reds and yellows, dimly highlighted by one of the two lamps at the alley’s entrance, raised her hand slowly.

  The air around Stefan grew heavy, thick, and constrictive. He gagged, suddenly finding himself short of breath. His weapon felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

  The woman was a Matus. A Forger.

  “Before you die,” she said with an air of nonchalance. “You will reveal to me how you came to possess your sword. You will release it to me and tell me what you know of the Chronicle of Undeath. Resist and your wife and children will suffer.”

  Stefan opened his mouth to speak, but words fled him. Throat and lips dry, he squeezed his eyes shut and strained for all he was worth against her Forging. Dear Ilumni, help me. Please. But he knew his efforts were futile. Still, he tried again and again, begging the gods for some kind of strength. His prayers went unanswered. He was going to die and so was his family. Images of Thania and the children ravaged by the savage beasts, souls torn and bodies transformed, brought tears to his eyes. If he could have wept at his helplessness, he would have.

  Against his palm, the sword vibrated even more intensely. Heat throbbed through him, scouring his insides. Gritting his teeth against the weight suffocating him and stopping his movement, Stefan willed his sword arm to move. His fingers gave a twitch, his wrist turned and the weapon with it. Such a slight effect brought him a flutter of hope.

  Somehow, he knew he would not die. He would be with Thania again. He would spend time with his children again. It was his will, and it would be so.

  Stefan opened his mouth in a wordless scream. A tiny concussion rocked his arm, emanating from the sword. The pressure holding him eased.

  The Matus’ eyes grew wide.

  In a quick motion, the foremost wraithwolf sniffed the air then whirled to scan the rooftops. Its counterpart did the same.

  “What-”

  Hooded cloak billowing, a man-shaped form appeared in front the Matus. Flames streaked from her hand toward the newcomer. The cloak swirled, and the fire simply dissipated as if gobbled up by the fabric. Before the she Forged again, the shadowy form took a step forward, and sheared her head from her shoulders with a slice of a sword so fast it seemed almost casual.

  Completely free of her power, Stefan charged the closest wraithwolf, but his savior was faster still. In a blur of motion, both creatures suffered the woman’s fate. Unlike her, the beasts didn’t fall with blood spraying from the stumps of their necks, they crumpled to black ash which the chilly breeze swept away.

  Stefan brought his sword up into a defensive position. The man eased off his hood. Mind partially preoccupied by the weapon’s reaction, the sheer power it had unleashed, the Knight Commander squinted. A gasp escaped his lips when the stranger’s hood dropped to his shoulders.

  Kahar, the King’s bodyguard, regarded him w
ith those strange green and silver eyes of his. His face was a blank mask.

  In the city, bells began to toll.

  “Thania and the children,” Stefan said in a labored breath. “They’re in danger.”

  “The King has already dispatched several Alzari to your home.” Kahar bent and wiped his sword on the dead Matus’ tunic.

  A weight lifted from Stefan’s chest. “Still, I have to get to them. They need me.”

  “No. King Nerian needs you.” Kahar stared off in the direction of Stefan’s home. “Your family is fine. The Alzari have already arrived.”

  How could he know this? Stefan opened his mouth to ask, but the expression on Kahar’s face was one of such unflinching certainty he nodded instead. “Do you know her?” He inclined his head toward the dead Matus.

  “No, but …” Kahar bent and ripped the woman’s tunic from her shoulder to her breast, exposing a tattoo of a fist enclosed around a lightning bolt. “The Searing Fist. An Erastonian.”

  “An Erastonian Matus working with shadelings? Why would they do such a thing?”

  “It is man’s tendency to do the unexpected and err toward his own interests. Come, we must leave. When the bells finish, anyone found outside will be considered an enemy and struck down.”

  “What? Since when-”

  “Since assassins have been trying to kill the King.”

  “Lead on,” Stefan said.

  Cloak flapping behind him, Kahar set off at a jog, his effortless movements making him appear to glide. Thoughts swirling, Stefan followed. A craving for revenge bubbled into him as he repeated the scene and the insignia in his head.

  They emerged from the alley to find streets once filled with revelers now desolate. The occasional person who was still fleeing the warning bells kept their heads down as Kahar and Stefan passed. Kahar stopped a pair of green and gold clad Alzari, instructing them on where to find the bodies and to guard them until the King sent one of the Captains. Accompanied by silver-blue moonlight, they continued along the lamp-lit avenues until they reached the palace.

  The need to make the Erastonians pay grew stronger.

  CHAPTER 16

  “They dare to strike at me in my palace?” Dressed in ebony armor to match his braids, King Nerian paced across the marble floors before his huge throne. The gold and silver monstrosity would have dwarfed the body of a normal sized man, but with Nerian’s giant frame, the throne fit.

  “Sire,” Kahar said, “I believe they had no other choice given their other attempts failed so miserably.”

  “It’s possible,” Nerian stopped, his eyes ablaze, “but they had to know they would suffer the same fate. Why not hire some mercenary Matii? An Ashishin, a disgruntled Alzari, an Astocan or Cardian Namazzi or one of those crazed Felani Deathbringers. Why use one of their own? Not that any would have succeeded. Why expose that they work with the shade?”

  “Boldness? Desperation?” Stefan rubbed at his jaw, which still throbbed even after the mending by the King’s High Alzari.

  “This was well coordinated.” Nerian turned to regard Stefan. “They struck at all my Generals. Renaida and Senden are dead. I suppose they thought to stop my invasion before it began, or at least stall it. Yes, Pilar?”

  Stefan turned to the muffled footfalls on the carpet that ran down the room’s center. Head down, Pilar, one of the King’s High Alzari, shuffled past the ruddy glow of several braziers positioned next to the carved pillars lining the hundred-foot walkway. Flames crackled in one of the three hearths along the walls. Pilar stopped at the semicircular steps and dais before the throne and bowed.

  “A-A report from High Zar Galiana, sire.” Gaze shifting from side to side, but not meeting the King’s, Pilar’s head bobbed several times. He dabbed at his forehead with a cloth.

  “Go on.” Nerian gave a nonchalant wave.

  “A-Ashishin, sire.” Pilar kept his head down.

  Stefan perked up. The King’s brow knitted.

  “Look at me. What do you mean by Ashishin? I sent them all back to the Tribunal.”

  Pilar’s head rose slowly. Licking his lips, he shot a nervous glance Stefan’s way. “At General Dorn’s home, Your Majesty. They were Ashishin. Four of them. Our High Alzari managed to kill three, but one escaped.”

  “So, again,” Nerian sounded calm, but the tightness around his eyes told of a seething anger, “the Tribunal shows their true hand. Still, I can understand them wanting to kill my Generals to hinder my plans, or for revenge, but to send four High Ashishin, three shadelings and an Erastonian Forger for a mere Dagodin?” His brow knitted as he regarded Stefan. “Why?”

  Stefan wrinkled his brow at the King’s inclusion of the Erastonians and the shadeling with the Tribunal. The suggestion of Ashishin allying with the shade was akin to blasphemy. He thought about asking the King why he thought they were all working together but decided against it. Nerian was already in a bad mood.

  “Any ideas, General?”

  “Oh, sorry, sire … I was thinking,” Stefan said. The Erastonian’s words ran through his mind anew, but the sword was something he still wished to keep from the King. “Maybe, my reputation as Stefan the Undefeated, leader of the Unvanquished? Not to mention my wife is as strong as any High Shin and was once a part of the Tribunal.”

  “Ah, yes, there is that. How could I forget?” Nerian’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. Brows drawn together, the King turned to face the stained glass windows at the throne room’s rear.

  Pictures drawn on the surface of the twenty-foot panes displayed the gods of Streams, Flows, and Forms in a massive battle against each other and a formless, multi-colored force. The colorful waves surrounding the nine deities reminded Stefan of the essences within the three elements of Mater those same gods represented. Nights like tonight when he faced powerful Forgers often made him wish he could do more than sense Mater. Whenever his thoughts leaned that way, he remembered the fates of such men and women: Death, insanity, or both, brought about by the power they wielded.

  “GENERAL STEFAN!” King Nerian bellowed.

  Stefan started. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  Face dark, the King stared at him, his lips curled and his eyes steely. “Did you not hear my question?”

  Stefan bowed his head as he spoke. “I apologize again, Your Majesty. No. I’m afraid I didn’t hear you … I was thinking about my family.” Stefan waited expectantly, but he knew the King would not repeat himself. In these moods, he never did.

  “The King asked if your men are prepared to march,” Kahar said.

  “Yes, they are,” Stefan replied.

  “Good,” Nerian said, “you leave in the morning.”

  “Yes, sire. What of the plan to find a way into Everland without discovery?”

  “The Scouts have proved that to be impossible, Stefan,” Nerian said. “The entire range of mountains between Harnan lands and the Vallum of Light are guarded. Regardless, after tonight, I want them to know we are attacking and when. I want them to know they can do nothing about it.”

  A bold maneuver that has worked many a time, Stefan thought. Yet, he could not shake the uneasiness clawing at him. Initially, he attributed it to him not wanting to be a part of this campaign. Now, seeing that the Erastonians employed shadelings and Forgers made him wonder if they used either in battle. It would only make sense if they did, and he wasn’t sure if his men were ready for that kind of a fight. Preparation and foreknowledge won battles. He preferred more time to plan and discover the strategies of his enemy, but the attack against him and his family deserved a punishment. Besides, once angered the King would not relent until they defeated the Erastonians. If indeed the Tribunal had taken part in this action, they too would pay a price for incurring his wrath.

  “I’d like to take at least one Alzari cohort with me for our first crossing into Everland,” Stefan said.

  “You? Taking Matii other than Dagodin?” Nerian smirked. “The man who always rails against, what did you call it again? A Forger’
s instability on a battlefield?”

  “My concerns were correct on more than one occasion in the past,” Stefan said. “The massacre at the Sands of the Abandoned for example.”

  “Yet, without them, our land would not only be in chaos but under the shade’s influence,” the King countered.

  Stefan almost reminded Nerian that according to history, Denestia had become the way it was-a land almost thrown into dark ages-because of Matii, but belaboring the point might lead to another argument.

  “Nothing to add?”

  “If the Erastonians are as desperate as they seem, it makes sense to take Alzari, sire.”

  Nerian smiled. “‘Attack with what and how they expect, and at the most opportune moment, when they have settled on your predictability, strike in a way they cannot anticipate.’“

  “Yes, sire.” Stefan matched the King’s smile with one of his own, but his uneasiness about the coming battle made him think more in terms of defense and survival.

  Several hours later, after he discussed further strategy with Garrick and Kasimir, Stefan made his way home with an Alzari escort. The manicured gardens to one side of his home were trampled and blackened. Several soldiers with torches patrolled the perimeter, snapping to attention when he passed. He bid his guardians goodnight and trudged up the stairs. This would be the last night with his family for some time, maybe five to ten years. He let out a deep sigh.

  The door opened and instead of Perta, Thania greeted him. She was wearing a pink nightgown with lace on the most revealing areas. Not waiting for her to say a word, he snatched her up into his arms and kissed her. When he let her up for a breath, a tear trickled down his face.

  “How are the children?” he asked.

  “Fine. Asleep. They didn’t see what happened outside.”

  “Good,” he replied, wiping at his face.

  You’re leaving aren’t you?” Thania’s eyes glistened.